


Considering Whether or Not People Change

by whatevermanj



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Demon Sam Winchester, Hurt, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Sick Sam Winchester, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:54:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 40,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26574097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatevermanj/pseuds/whatevermanj
Summary: Lucifer is back thanks to a horrible mistake, and he has a new plan to create an apocalypse with Sam in the middle in a way so much worse than before, but that isn't what Sam is thinking about right now.Sam can't stop remembering Hell and everything that happened to him there. What will he do to make the pain stop, or, more importantly, what is he willing to become?
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel & Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Lucifer & Sam Winchester, Mary Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 38





	1. What Do You See, Sam Winchester?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to a canon divergence that I made because I was (and still am) super angry at the writers for basically everything they did after S6. Everything up to S7/Dean and Cas going to purgatory is canon and it splits off after that. The angels falling and Mary coming back are still canon. 
> 
> Not rated but there is mention of mental illness, trauma, mental breakdowns, hallucinations, suicide/self harm, and there are descriptions of bloody scenes (not gore, and most of it is vague). Also they curse. It's a little more intense than the show but generally it's what you would see in a Supernatural season.

Dark… everything is so dark.

Sam sat in the field. His fingernails were starting to draw blood from his hands, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Not compared to _him_.

He always looked the same. He always had the same shirt, the same outfit. He looked exactly like Sam. But he didn’t. He had a cruel look on his face, his irises were always red.

“Please… leave me alone.” Sam’s head was rested against the trunk of the tree behind him, and he felt so weak. Like he could barely hold himself up. He was breathing, hard.

The other Sam cocked his head to the side. “You're in pain, aren’t you, Sam?”

It was true—he was right. He always was. He felt it all happening to him. All the time. Fire, cold, blood. It was hard to ignore. Harder to ignore when it was dark. And cold. Just like it was. Just like-

“Just like it will be.” Other Sam had a small smile on his face. Not a smirk, just a smile. A smile of knowledge. A smile that said he knew. Of course. Of course he knew what he was thinking. He was _him_.

Sam closed his eyes. “No,” he breathed. Quietly. His breath was shuddering. His teeth were chattering. He was shivering. It was September, and he knew the air was humid, thick, warm. But it was _so cold_.

There was a slight silence. The other Sam looked at him, took him in. “You’re getting weaker.” It wasn’t a question. It was never a question with him. He always knew. “You won’t be able hold it off for much longer.”

Another strained breath. Another. So dark. So cold. “Shut up.”

“I can stop it, you know.”

Sam knew. Of course he knew. And everything hurt as he sat on the dirt, in the cold, hot September night, the full moon making everything that much darker. Maybe the other Sam with the red eyes could stop it. But Sam didn’t want to learn what the cost could be. “Go to Hell.”

His red eyes seemed to gleam a bit brighter. “Already went. That seems to be the problem, isn’t it?”

—

Dean was getting antsy.

It was just who he was: he always gets antsy at the end of a week of research. When he was a kid, he could barely handle a day cooped up somewhere, and even though that time had gotten longer the older he got, the feeling he got nearing the end was the same.

He put his head in the book and groaned.

They were grasping at straws at this point, Dean knew. There wasn’t going to be a magical solution to kill Lucifer, or lock him in the cage again, or throw him into some other pit. Castiel had gone to the heavens, saying he would “ask around.” Mom had traveled north to follow up on a lead, one that Dean suspected would lead to nothing.

The walls weren’t the only thing seeming to close in on him. The feeling of inevitability was choking him. It felt like when he had made the deal to bring Sam back, and the deadline was closing in. The destruction that Lucifer would cause, the death and pain... Dean was doubting he could stop it.

He looked down the hallway where Sam’s room lied. Dean bit his lip, sighing. Every time he saw Sam, he seemed to be getting worse and worse. He never left his room, he barely spoke unless spoken to, locked away doing research day and night.

They were different people. Sam never got antsy, and so he never stopped.

He knew that Lucifer coming back would hurt them, but he never thought it would hurt Sam this much. He wished Castiel were here to perform some healing mojo on him, or even just stay here and laugh with them. Anything to cure Dean’s antsiness, anything to cure _Sam_.

Dean closed the book in front of him, giving up. It wasn’t like there was anything of use in it anyways.

He was going out. He doubted Sam would notice, and it’s not like being cooped up and wishing other people were here was doing him any good.

He looked only once more down the hallway, where the light was on in Sam’s room, and ascended the stairs.

\--

When Sam saw Dean leave the bunker he sighed with relief. The night had turned into dawn, and dawn had turned into day hours ago. The shadows underneath the trees and leaves were almost black around this time, and the second he saw the Impala belt away he took the key from his jacket pocket, glad he would finally be able to enter the bunker again. He barely remembered leaving in the nighttime, just that it was cold, and all he could see was darkness in the bunker, the shadows, and he remembered thinking that if he stayed, if he spent one more second lying on his bed, then everything was going to fall apart. The other Sam had followed him the entire way into the woods.

He descended the stairs quickly, completely silently, even though he knew Dean wasn’t here. It was a force of habit. Dean had closed his laptop, his books, left a mess in the kitchen. It was nice to know some things stayed the same.

His room was bright, as normal. As bright as he could make it without seeming suspicious. He had always told Dean that he never had a home, and that was true. He never did, and he never planned on having one. But this room was better: it was a sanctuary. Homes were for people who hoped, and Sam didn't have time for that.

The stack of books in the corner were growing smaller and smaller with each passing day. Weeks ago, when Sam had learned that Lucifer was free, he had gathered every promising book from the library, an impressive collection.

Turns out they weren’t very promising.

He opened up another one, dwindling the pile even further. The words seemed to fly when he read them, glancing for the right words. _Kill. Destroy. End_. Different languages, botched translations about nothing in particular. Sam was no stranger to any of this, but every moment seemed more pressing.

“The weapon of choice for Lucifer. The fate of Lucifer. The victims of Lucifer.” Sam knew already, and he wondered (not for the first time) why all the information he would ever need to know were recorded by people thousands of years old who wouldn’t know Lucifer if he killed them where they stood.

Of course, nobody knew Lucifer quite like he did.

No excuse for shitty writing, though.

He kept reading. He didn’t have a choice. There had to be an answer. There had to be. If there wasn't…

No. He wasn’t going to think about that again.

Not when he can help it.

The words flew. “Some accounts state that, while Lucifer has a depiction of fire, actually favored colder temperatures as a more pure form of torture.” Sam tried to let out a little laugh as he read that, ignoring the cold spots suddenly appearing by his hands, his limbs. _No shit_. He looked up, and when everything seemed darker, he knew it was happening again.

Sam closed the book. He took a deep breath. Before he knew it he was sprawled on the bed, looking directly into the lights on the ceiling. They made it easier. Looking at them made it easier.

Sometimes. He could only hope today was one of those times.

 _Hope_.

Sam scoffed. He knew better than that.

\--

Sam was still in his room by the time Dean came back, and although he expected nothing else, the pit in his stomach got larger when he saw the light beaming from under the door.

Whenever he woke up, whenever he went to sleep, the light stayed on. Dean was starting to wonder if Sam was sleeping at all. He realized then that it had been almost a day since he had last seen him.

The pit got larger.

Dean opened the book in front of him, and closed it immediately. “God dammit,” he muttered under his breath, putting his head in his hands. He found himself opening a bottle of whiskey.

Dean wasn’t a stranger to losing his brother. He had been put through it again and again, the world testing him again and again. Taking away from him the only thing he can’t lose.

He wasn’t going to lose Sam. He wasn’t going to let him fade away while they looked for a goddamn archangel.

Dean took a shot. Another. He opened up his laptop. His recent search history seemed to call for him. “ _Satan_ ,” it seemed to say to him. “ _You have to find a way to destroy him, once and for all._ ”

Dean knew he should. But then again, he had never been one to prioritize something over his brother.

“Mysterious disappearances,” he typed into the search bar.

And so he did the only thing he knew how, the only thing he had ever truly perfected.

He prepared for a hunt.

\--

By the time Sam realized he hadn’t shown his face to his brother in over a day, it was already too late.

Dean was concerned. He always was, but now that Sam was hiding everything worse and worse, suddenly he could feel his concern like a weight. He had felt it enough times to know: the pressure of his eyes whenever he took a step, ate something. The assessing gaze as he took in how weak you were, how pale you were. Sam had mastered the art of hiding all of those telltale signs long ago. He was just so tired. He was letting everything slip.

And now it was another thing Sam had to worry about.

He didn’t have time for it. He knew that was cruel to say, but as time passed by with every passing day, Sam found that he didn’t seem to care anymore what was cruel and what wasn’t. Lucifer was back, and Dean could never understand what that meant. He didn’t _know_ the same way Sam did.

Sam tried to be angry at Castiel for being the one that brought him back. He couldn’t.

A lot of times he really can’t feel much at all. But, considering the situation, that was better than his alternative.

He sighed as he stood up, putting some random object in the book as a placeholder. He had damage control to do.

He tried to brace himself for the dark hallway. It didn't work.

\--

Dean tried not to look too relieved when he saw Sam enter the kitchen. He also tried not to look too concerned when he saw him. He failed at both.

But it was hard not to. The first thing Dean noticed was how pale his face was. It was so white that in the light of the room Dean was surprised he couldn’t see through it, like thin paper. His eyes were blank, dark. They were puffy, the color almost bright red in the artificial lighting. His clothes were rumpled, and Dean recognized them as the same ones from a week ago. “Well, look who’s up.” He let out a laugh. Sam simply gave a small, almost pitiful grin, and walked over to the sink. His footsteps were so quiet.

Dean pretended to be focused on his whiskey as he watched Sam fill up his cup, wincing as he took a sip of water. He didn’t eat anything. “Bit early for the whiskey, isn’t it?” Sam’s voice was hoarse, yet he still didn’t seem to want to drink the water. It seemed as if he only had the cup to placate Dean.

“Are you kidding? It’s never too early.” Dean took another mouthful, grateful for it’s burn as it went down his throat.

Sam shook his head. “You’re going to die before we even get to Lucifer.”

“That’s the plan.” Dean smiled, but Sam didn’t return it. He took another sip of his water, and he looked at the ceiling.

“Did you find anything?” Sam asked after a moment.

Dean could almost laugh. “What besides a whole new level of frustration? No, nothing.” He leaned back in his chair. “What about you?”

Sam shrugged. “No, nothing yet. We just have to keep looking.”

There was a moment of silence. There were unspoken words between them. _What if looking doesn’t work_? “Sam,” Dean said after that moment had passed. “I hate to say this I really do, but…” Sam’s face was blank, expressionless in front of him. He always looked like that now.

But it was okay. He could fix him. He wasn’t just going to let his wither in front of him, die on his watch.

He had a job to do.

Dean cleared his throat. “Alright, pack your stuff.”

Sam was taken aback. “What?”

“We’re going on a hunt. Get ready.”

\--

Sam was trying his best not to be bitter about this. It was his brother, and he knew he cared, and really (the more he thought about it) it was his own fault for not hiding his dirty laundry better.

Although, in his case his dirty laundry was nearly black, he could never take it off, and he didn’t have an intention of cleaning it. Less because he didn’t want to. He just didn’t think it was possible, considering the circumstances.

Lucifer had done nothing, said nothing for over three weeks. It should have been a relief to Sam (it was to Dean, Cas, and Mary), but it wasn’t. He knew Lucifer, maybe better than Lucifer knew himself. He only waits so it’s more painful when it all comes crashing down.

And now they were on a hunt.

He had read through the newspaper clippings, all four. Seemed cut and dry: demonic possession in some small town in Virginia.

Sam was trying his best not to be bitter about this.

The drive was going to take a while. Perfect for Dean so he could diagnose Sam with whatever he wanted on the way there. He kept passing glances over to Sam sitting in the passenger seat, trying to seem as if he wasn’t concerned.

Dean was bad at hiding how he thought, how he felt. One glance and almost everyone can tell what’s going on in that head of his. He always wore his heart on his sleeve. That was just another difference between them.

Sam didn’t care about differences. He liked Dean the way he was. Sometimes.

Sometimes he wished his brother would just leave him alone.

It’s hard, but Sam tries to remind himself that, no matter what Dean puts him through, he does it because he cares.

It’s hard because Dean doesn’t know. He never will.

Led Zeppelin was playing again. The car was never silent. Even when nobody is talking, it’s always so loud. The clanking of the legos in the heater, the deep bass of the songs, the constant singing. It hurt Sam’s head. Made everything feel cluttered.

Silence was a lot more natural to him.

Dean pulled over into an empty parking lot, which Sam hadn’t even seen before the turn, courtesy of the nighttime. Some visitor center in the middle of nowhere. A bathroom and an information panel. “Alright, let’s turn in,” Dean groaned, stretching his arms as high as he could (not very high). “I’m going to get some shuteye.” He looked meaningfully at Sam, who sighed.

“Yeah, same here. I call backseat.” Dean looked at him, almost non believing, but somewhat placated. Good enough for him.

“Well,” he started. He put on some sunglasses despite the pitch black night, turned the car into park, shut off the music. “Night.” His eyes closed, and he pretended he was asleep.

He could feel Dean listening in as Sam opened the car door, settled into the backseat. He stared at the ceiling, at least grateful for the quiet. Sam would simply have to wait two hours (nearly exact, every time. Dean was a creature of habit). Then he could roam free for a couple hours. All he had to do was be back before dawn rolled around.

He continued to stare at the ceiling. It was dark in the car. Nearly pitch black. His eyes never seemed to adjust to the nighttime light anymore. It’s hard to remember, in the same way that it’s hard to remember early childhood, but before everything Sam could see in the dark easily. Sometimes he didn’t even need a flashlight. Sam also used to be able to easily track time. But now he can’t. Effects of a habit of his. Nowadays he just loses track of time and doesn’t care much when he does.

So he didn’t know how much time passed by when it happened, as it always does. He couldn’t really see the moon, or the stars.

It was chilly, Sam was starting to realize. He told himself it was the nighttime air. Not because he believed it, but because it made everything just a little easier, for just a little bit.

“Cold, isn’t it?”

It was freezing. So cold. Sam grit his teeth, staring determined at the ceiling.

It’s just, everything was so dark.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Sam didn’t reply. He dug his fingers into his hands. There was only a little pain. He refused to look at the source of the voice. Sam was always one to fight the losing battles.

The voice paused for a moment. “How much more of this can you take?”

That was the final straw. Sam didn’t know why, but it was. He threw open the car door, the cold, summer air greeting him. His gasps echoed through the empty parking lot. Dean didn’t stir, and Sam was grateful for it as he felt blood on his hands, from his fingernails.

Slick, warm blood. Not warm in a comfortable way. Warm in a cold way, a sickening, messy way.

Sam’s throat was closing up, his breaths becoming tight, quiet wheezes as spots danced in his eyes. Spots of blood. Crimson, sickly blood.

He was on his knees, he realized. The gravel underneath him was digging into his skin, like tiny blades. Blood, everywhere. On his hands, dripping down his back, his face. Everywhere. And why wouldn’t it be? He was being torn apart, this was his life.

 _This isn’t real. This isn’t real_. And it wasn’t, but _God_ , it felt like it was.

“Why are you always so quiet, Sam?” This time Sam did look up. His eyes were red, but not like blood, like something else. Sam never could quite put his finger on it.

The Impala was gone. The street, the parking lot, the gravel, the small bathrooms and little stand. It was just darkness surrounding him. Surrounding _them_.

Other Sam was standing above him, looking down. There was no blood on him. “Why are you always so quiet?” he asked again.

In another world, at another time, Sam would have found it ironic that he said nothing in reply, simply sitting on his knees, in the darkness. But this Sam didn’t find it ironic. He didn’t think of anything, if he could help it.

But he couldn’t help it. He thought of pain, of the cold around him, of the darkness, of the piercing red eyes that he knew was on him, of the gravel he still somehow felt on his knees and the blood still on his hands and his face and his back and everywhere, and how cold it was, and how dark it was, and how his hands still hurt and everything still hurt and how the eyes on him were different than the color of blood, and he wondered then what they were the color of, but he didn’t know.

He didn’t know. “I don’t know,” Sam whispered. He was looking at the ground, but the ground was dark, simple darkness. Pitch black. Nothing.

Nothing.

He looked up, and he met the red eyes. They looked like blood, but not quite. “I don’t know,” he repeated again. He wasn’t whispering anymore, but he spoke quietly, and his breath was warm.

The Other Sam’s face held no emotion, but that was the whole point, wasn’t it? “I can help you.”

_“I can help you.”_

_“I can help you.”_

_“I can help you.”_

The darkness suddenly changed.

_“Nobody is coming to help you, Sam.”_

Sam stood up. It wasn’t easy. It never was. The blood was warmer now. He staggered, and he put his hand on the Impala for leverage. Gravel fell off his knees.

“No you can’t.” Sam’s voice was guttural, hard to hear, but Other Sam heard it.

He looked down.

And then he was gone.

\--

Dean didn’t consider himself the smartest person in the world, but he would have to be a dumbass not to see that Sam hadn’t slept. If anything, the bags underneath his eyes and the waxy tone to his face only got more pronounced as the night passed, only now Sam looked like he was going to throw up.

What the hell was wrong with him?

Sam had woken before Dean did, something Dean was determined not to let happen again, and he had, apparently, done enough research on their case to fill a book.

“Rachel Thompson,” Sam stated in the passenger seat, reading off some written notes. “Senior at her high school where she was captain of the field hockey team, committed to University of Virginia.” He flipped a page. “She was going to study Biology, and the one day last week-”

“She goes psycho,” Dean finished. “So, what? Demonic possession?”

“Looks like it. She killed her family, went missing, reports put her pretty much everywhere around the county.” Sam ruffled through a few more notes. “Kills people, raises mayhem, leaves wreckage behind, moves to another town. Every day.”

“Alright, sounds pretty easy.” Dean brought out the demon blade from his coat pocket.

Music played in the car, and Dean took the time to assess Sam, sitting in the passenger seat, looking at the bland Virginia scenery. This was almost a habit at this point: him as a little kid, looking over to see Sam while they were driving across the country. Him was a teenager counting Sam’s wounds after a hunt.

Him as an adult, looking at his brother dying in the front seat.

Dying. It’s a harsh word. He’s seen Sam die more times than he could handle, and each time it seemed to hurt worse and worse, in new and different ways. He’s seen what it’s like when the life leaves his eyes, and his skin becomes pale and dark. And he knew, in his gut, that he was watching it, but in slow motion.

He could feel him dying, and he knew Sam could feel it too. He also knew that Sam was giving up.

But that didn’t matter.

His brother wasn’t going to die. He wasn’t going to go through that again.

Not while he could help it.

When they arrived at the motel, it was dark outside. Sam hadn’t slept the entire ride, Dean knew that for sure. So he was going to sleep now, whether he liked it or not.

“Alright, let’s load out.” The rock music abruptly stopped when Dean shut the car off, and everything felt too quiet.

Dean hated quiet.

Sam silently left the car, not even his footsteps making much noise, grunting as he slung his bag around his back. Before he left the car, Dean realized he had never noticed that before: Sam not making a lot of noise. Dean knew his brother front and back, been with him through everything. He didn’t know why that was, why he would be so quiet.

The motel was dirty, but at least the room had two beds. After that, Dean could handle pretty much anything, including the old, rusty TV he saw sitting on the dresser. Sam dropped his bag carelessly by the chair, something else Dean saw as odd, and slumped down with a tired sigh. Dean threw his own bag on the closest bed, and did the same.

Sam took out his laptop. “Hey, hey.” Dean nearly leapt from the bed and closed the computer. Sam jumped back slightly from his seat in surprise. “How about I handle the research tonight, you get some shuteye.”

Sam didn’t look amused. He took in a deep breath. “Well, actually I figured since you drove here you would be tired.” He tried to pry over the computer, but Dean didn’t budge.

He was right, he was tired. But it took one look at the bags under Sam’s eyes to disregard the notion of a full night’s sleep. “Yeah well, you already did most of the research, so I’ll take the final stretch.”

Well, yeah, but--”

“Go get some shuteye, Sam.” Dean tried to make the words sound final. Sam took in a breath, probably to respond, and then stopped, as if he knew it wasn’t worth it.

“Yeah, okay.”

He nearly stumbled from the chair, although he clearly was trying not to, and he didn’t change or anything, didn’t even bother to get under the covers before he sunk into the bed.

Dean watched as his brother settled into the mattress, lying still. He didn’t know if he was sleeping, but he was bound to, eventually.

That was the hope.

\--

The thing about not sleeping is that, at a certain point, it’s all about _moving_. Sleep becomes almost inevitable, almost like you’re fighting it. You have to always be on the move, never stationary, or else they’ll strike, and you’ll be down for the count.

Sam doesn’t sleep much anymore, he hadn’t in a long time. He’d stopped after the first three times he thought he was _there_ again.

He had gotten out. He wasn’t going to go back in.

If he could help it.

The worst times were when he couldn’t help when he went to sleep. When his eyes seemed to slip closed, without control, and he is suddenly there, without warning. Those were the worst times because he never understands, not until it’s happening. It’s not like a dream, it’s like he’s _there_.

Those were the worst times because sometimes, when he’s above ground, when he’s seeing light and his family - his _actual_ family - he forgets truly what it was like. And then he’s back there, and he’s forced to remember.

The thing about not sleeping is that it’s not just warding off sleep, it’s warding off the inevitable.

The other part of him keeps him alive, even though he doesn’t sleep. That part is inevitable, too. Lucifer is inevitable. Going back there, for real, is inevitable, because that’s just his life, and that’s just who he is.

And everything is inevitable.

Sam waited for Dean to finally sink into his bed, give up on his notes. Dean wasn’t the best at research, another difference between them.

That was alright. Sam didn’t really care much about differences. He liked Dean the way he was. Sometimes.

Sometimes he wished his brother would just leave him alone.

Eventually Dean groaned with a curse, and settled into bed, turning out the lamp he had on. Sam waited for what he thought was two hours (really he was just guessing). He spent the time staring at the wall, ignoring the presence in the darkness. Easy enough. He glanced over his shoulder at Dean, praying that he wasn’t awake, at the clock that read 3:36.

Dean was out, cold. He didn’t even stir. He never did, he was a deep sleeper.

He was quiet as he shifted from the bed. It was only natural. He shuffled through Dean’s notes, only for a moment, only to find one note. “Shaw’s,” the note read, big letters. Sam stuffed it into his pocket, and a picture of Rachel he had found.

“Sneaking out?” Other Sam was in the doorway to the bathroom, the part of the room unilluminated by the outside streetlamps and the dim glow of the clock.

Sam looked over at Dean, worrying, until he realized it didn’t matter. He couldn’t hear him. He never would. At least, that was the hope.

 _Hope_. Sam scoffed.

The door didn’t creak when Sam opened it, and it made no sound when he closed it.

Sam didn’t take the Impala. He took a bus for the next town over. He didn’t quite know why.

—

It’s a roulette what Dean dreams about every night. Sometimes it’s Hell, and he’s being torn apart again. Sometimes it’s the moment he woke up, buried alive. Sometimes he watches himself get torn apart by Hellhounds, sometimes he watches Sam die again and again. He always dreams, though.

Sometimes he wakes up screaming. Sometimes he can stifle any noise before he comes into consciousness. And sometimes he wakes up seeing Sam get up from the bed next to him in the middle of the night.

He feigned sleep, watching silently as Sam deftly crossed the room, ruffling through notes, so quickly. Sam looked at the bathroom, and when he looked over at him, Dean stayed perfectly still. The door clicked as it shut behind him, and that’s when he finally sat up.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered under his breath. He grabbed his coat that he had haphazardly thrown on the bedside. The clock read ‘3:42,’ and it illuminated the room in a red light. “Couldn’t have picked a better time for sleeping troubles, Sammy?” The keys to Baby we’re still on the table, and they chimed as he snatched them up, as if they were happy to be in his hands.

He nearly threw open the door, and it squeaked loudly as he did. All he wanted was to take care of Sam, but he had forgotten how hard it was to protect someone who doesn’t want to be protected.

But his plan wasn’t to give Sam a choice. He may not be sleeping, but Dean didn’t care if he had to knock him out to do it, he was going to take care of him.

He had to.

Although, if he was being truthful with himself, which he rarely is, the sleeping problem wasn’t what was truly scaring him. Ever since Lucifer had come back - since Castiel brought him back - he got quiet. Sam was never a very loud person to begin with, but it was different this time. Like he was forcing himself to stay silent, for some reason.

He remembers the cataclysm, the giant rumble. How Dean picked up Mom and how Sam picked up himself. Castiel was covered in blood, and he was slumped, and Dean picked him up. And then he said that Lucifer was back, and that was the last time he had seen Sam’s eyes when they weren’t empty.

He had never seen more fear in his brother.

When he opened the door, Sam was a silhouette again, a tall figure in a street lamp, ambling down the sidewalk. Dean silently thanked Castiel and whatever deity he could think of that he hadn’t taken Baby, and when he sat in the car, feeling the familiar rumble and hearing the welcoming rattle of the legos in the heater, he knew he couldn’t let Sam go.

Whatever was happening to Sam, he didn’t know. But he wasn't going to let anything happen.

Never again.

—

Sometimes, when something is so pronounced in someone’s head, it's hard to believe the world is completely different. Right now, in the street surrounding Sam, it’s well lit, streetlamps and pub lights decorating the pathway. Right now, in Sam’s head, everything was a whirlwind. Darkness and cold, red eyes, thoughts of Lucifer, of pain, of all the fears he ever felt, of losing everything, of doubt that he ever had anything at all, of his past, of all the time he spent there, of anger, of sadness, of the Game. Of silence.

Everything was a whirlwind, but everything was perfectly still. Not a single breeze shifted through the night, not a single car ventured onto the street. So simple, so peaceful.

For other people. Sam didn’t even notice.

Another demon on the loose. Sometimes, Sam wondered how many demons there were in Hell. How many black-eyes he would end up seeing before too long. In his time down there, he was all alone, mostly. So he wouldn’t know. Maybe Dean would. But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t important enough to ask anyways.

Sam guessed it was a large number. There always seemed to be more demons. They’re all the same. “Lucifer isn’t the same.” The Sam with the red eyes was lurking in the darkest corner, an old abandoned alleyway.

Sam didn’t reply. Simply took more steps, hoping it was in the right direction. He hadn’t brought his phone, just hoped this “Shaw’s” place was closer than he thought.

When Sam walked into the bar, there was nobody there, although there clearly had been. Chairs, tables were turned over, and there were spots of blood on the walls. The demon had moved on. The bartender was a bearded, aged man, holding a towel to his head. Sam saw blood trickling down his face. When he caught sight of Sam, he stiffened, dropping the towel, reaching under the bar. He pulled out a gun, a rifle.

“Don’t come one step closer,” he attempted to say with authority. His hands were shaking, and so was his voice.

Sam sighed, putting his hands up. _Why did you have to be so intense, Rachel?_ “Which way did she go?”

“What?”

“ _Which way did she go_?” Sam tried to say, louder. The bar had a lot of shadows in it, and he was anxious to leave, if this bartender would just get it together.

“What the--who’re you talking about?”

Sam took a deep breath, taking in the bar one last time. “Teenage girl, caused a scene, broke a lot of things, maybe did a little damage?” Sam pointed to his head, mirroring the spot where the bartender had a bleeding wound.

The man’s hands would not stop shaking. Sam could almost hear the bullets rattling. He was quiet for a moment. “Why do you want to know that?”

“Does it matter?”

The silence that followed was welcome, albeit tense. Sam was good at reading people, especially when it was easy. He just hoped this man wouldn't take too long to tell him where she went. “She came in here, started yelling, making a scene. Some of my employees tried to stop her, she--” he stopped, looking down. “She threw them across the room, like they were nothing… I--” he shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

 _No shit_. “And where did she go?”

He swallowed. “Uh…” one of his hands left the rifle as he grabbed his nose. “She left, down the street somewhere. Johnny said she went to one of them warehouses nearby, don’t believe it though. I don’t… I just don’t get it.”

Sam brought his hands down, it was clear he wasn’t going to get shot. “Thanks.” He didn’t look back as he opened the door, letting it close behind him silently.

\--

Dean still remembers Castiel, after Lucifer had left him to die. He had rushed to him, grabbing him by the arm, and he almost let go when he felt it. It didn’t feel like how Castiel usually felt, it was cold. Freezing. “Dean, he’s _out_.” Dean didn’t know what he had meant, but he looked over at Sam, and that’s when he knew.

Sam’s eyes had gone wide. He didn’t bother to hear what Castiel had to say, maybe he was going to apologize, Dean would never know. Cas practically had to be held up by Dean, but still he tried to stumble over to Sam. But when he reached out, his hand grazing Sam’s shoulder, Sam flinched. Not a slight close of the eyes, a mistaken blink, a _flinch_. He had never flinched from Castiel before, not even in the worst of times, and even in the worst of times he had never seen Cas look so lost as when he watched Sam leave. That was the first time Dean noticed how silent his steps sounded.

He was always silent after that. Mom had left, saying she was going to visit old contacts to see if anything was out there. Sam said nothing, just hugged her and watched her leave. When Cas left, he didn’t bother to leave his room.

Dean had forgiven Castiel, but less because he truly forgave him, and more because he needed Cas. Because Cas needed him, especially after Sam had refused to say anything. Not a single word to him.

“I’ll… I’ll be back.”

“You better be,” Dean had said with a slight smile, leaning against the table.

Castiel’s eyes had glanced over to the hallway, where the only evidence of anyone there was a bright light shining under a door. “Do you think… do you think he’ll forgive me?”

Sometimes in life, the world gives you a choice. There’s the hard path, and the easy path. The hard path is… well it’s harder, and messy, and Dean didn’t think he could handle hard or messy right then.

“Yeah, of course,” Dean replied with a shrug. “You know Sam. He never stays angry for long.”

They hugged, and after he left, Dean sat in a chair for a long while, drinking whiskey. And then he went on a drive, in the Impala, as always. It’s easy to pretend things don’t change when you’re somewhere that’s always been the same.

Even now, when he’s looking for Sam in the streets of a small town, warehouses surrounding him, he can pretend for a moment that everything is the same, and Sam isn’t wandering somewhere, he’s sitting in the passenger seat, and he’s okay. He’s saying something like “so get this,” or “jerk” or maybe he’s just singing along to something, just to fill the silence in the car.

The thing about Sam now, that Dean is starting to realize, is that nothing has really changed, until he looks closer. Like everything is off, somehow. He speaks, his cadence is weird. He walks as he always does, but it’s quieter. He’ll debrief on a case, but he’ll speak quicker.

And he doesn’t sleep, apparently.

“Damn it, Sam. Where are you?” Dean muttered to himself, slowly rolling down the street. “You’re huge, you shouldn’t be that hard to spot.”

The minutes passed. He checked the bar that Rachel had last been to, and he wasn’t there. It was just some scared bartender who ushered him away when he put his foot through the door. He checked all the surrounding streets once, twice, and he wasn’t there.

Dean sighed as he exited the car, pulled over on the street. He popped the trunk, withdrawing the demon blade, salt, and holy water. It was going to be a pain to lug it everywhere, but as far as he knew (and he knew a lot), Sam was hunting a demon by himself. It wouldn’t hurt to be careful.

“There you are,” he heard over his shoulder, a small voice. Dean nearly jumped out of his own skin before he recognized it.

His brother was leaning against the streetlamp, in the shadows, nearly invisible, somehow. He couldn’t see his face, but he knew it was him. Dean could have socked him right there.

“Where the hell have you been?” Dean said, loudly, before Sam hurriedly gestured for him to be quiet, moving forward into the light. He looked almost like a ghost.

“Hunting. See that warehouse?” He spoke quietly as he pointed to the building across the street. “That’s where Rachel is. Did you bring the stuff?”

“‘Did I bring--’” Dean started, trying his best not to raise his voice from a whisper. “Why the hell didn’t you call me?”

“I don’t have my phone. Now, hand me the paint and salt.” Dean didn’t have a chance to reply before Sam snatched the materials from his hands. When Sam’s hand met Dean’s he felt a warm, slick sensation, and after he jumped, he looked down and saw the blood.

“Sammy, what the hell is this?” Dean held up his hand, showing the bloodstain. Sam didn’t even seem to comprehend for a moment, his eyes glazed. When they came back into focus he looked shocked before he took in his own hand in confusion.

“Uh… I cut it on something I guess.” He shook his head. “Anyways, did you meet with the guy from the bar?”

“What bar? Shaw’s?” Sam nodded his head in reply, looking down at the cans of spray paint, shaking them. “No, that wasn’t exactly the first thing on my to-do list.”

Sam cocked his head at him in confusion, before realization dawned on him. “Oh yeah.” He looked in the distance, then back at Dean. His eyes were still glazed, and they looked red even in the darkness. “The demon is in there. I’ll put the pentagrams around and salt, and you go in and distract her so we can trap her.”

“What the hell--Sam, no.” Sam looked at him in confusion, head cocked to the side slightly. It looked so normal, but something quite off, again. “No, listen, we just got here, you’re rambling like a crazy man, we can’t handle this job right now.”

The light above them started to sputter, only slightly, just an electrical outage, but it sent Dean on edge. Sam looked at the concrete, and then up at Dean. “You mean _I_ can’t handle this job right now.” Silence. “Right?”

Dean sat in the silence for a moment, and it was almost unbearable. “Well--I mean…” he sputtered. “Yes,” he finished. He couldn’t quite meet Sam’s eyes. Sammy sighed, putting his hand to his face. “Sam, I don’t think you’re up for this right now.”

“Then why’d you bring me here?” This was the loudest Sam had sounded in a while, though it was still so quiet, somehow. “To sleep? Rest up?” His fingers held his nose, and his eyes were closed.

There was another moment of silence. Sam’s breaths were ragged. “When do you want me to go in?” Dean finally asked. Sam never was the one to break silences.

There was a pause. “Give me ten minutes,” Sam replied.

He didn’t say goodbye as he left, just held the can of salt in one hand and the can of spray paint in the other as he walked away.

\--

Sam learned long ago that speaking to the things that no one else could see would only lead to it getting worse. Sam makes mistakes, but he doesn’t make them twice. Not when everything was on the line.

“Why’d you lie to Dean?” Other Sam asked while he drew the pentagram. He always wore the same thing, because it’s all in his head, and he always wears the same thing when he’s in his head too, because for Sam, going into his head isn’t just a metaphor.

Sam didn’t reply to him, because he doesn’t make mistakes twice.

“What did you cut your hand on, Sam?” The thing he always wore was what he was wearing when he jumped in, the same thing he wore the whole time.

He moved to another doorway. The warehouse was huge. If it wasn’t dark, pitch black, he’d be able to see inside. But he couldn’t, so it didn’t matter.

He knew what this reminded him of, but Sam was practiced. Thinking of the things that no one else knew would only lead to it getting worse. Sam made that mistake, only once.

Sam doesn’t make mistakes twice.

“I’m not Lucifer, Sam.” Sam flinched at the name. How often he heard that name, and yet every time it still feels like a blade, somehow.

 _It’s not just a name anymore. He’s back. He can get to you_.

Sam walked away from his unfinished pentagram. He could sense that Other Sam was lurking behind him, but he didn’t care. He shouldn’t care.

“The hand trick didn’t work on him either.”

_“Hey Sam, try the hand scar.”_

A dump of salt at another entrance, another sketch of a pentagram. Sam hates nighttime, mostly because that’s when it’s most dark. And when it’s dark…

”I’m not Lucifer.”

Sam finished the pentagram. “I know.” Turns out Sam does make mistakes twice. He walked over to where Other Sam was leaning against the wall. Surrounding him were giant unlabeled boxes, a moving cart. Sam crouched down, spray paint in hand. “Move your foot.”

“If I’m not real, why does it matter?” Sam took a deep breath, and Other Sam chuckled a bit to himself as his foot shifted. Sam finished the star, the paint scattering onto the boxes. The paint was black, but in this light it didn’t look black. It looked almost red.

He was probably imagining things. No--he _was_ imagining things.

That was the last pentagram. When he finished it, Sam slumped against the concrete. It was cold.

_“Most people think I burn hot. It’s actually quite the opposite.”_

Sam breathed a shaky breath, letting his head hit the wall behind him. He was so tired, he was starting to realize. Maybe it was just the sleep, but it felt deeper. Like he was balancing on a knife's edge, and if he fell off-

He can’t fall off. That’s the problem. If he falls off…

He dug in fingernails into his skin, and he felt the blood from before slip. The silence pushed on him, like pressure on a wound. Not a single sound in the night. He was sure Rachel was making sounds, he could have sworn he heard her before, but he couldn’t hear her now. Not even Dean, the loudest person he knew.

It was all so silent.

At least, until the scream.

\--

Dean had heard a lot of screams in his time, however gruesome that sounds. You don’t hunt for your whole life and not know what they sound like. There’s screams that sound like someone is being hurt, screams of someone seeing their loved ones hurt, screams of people watching the ones they love die.

There’s the scream of someone being killed. That’s the scream Dean just heard from the warehouse.

He nearly jumped, Demon Blade in hand. He had to stop himself from running right in through the salt-lined entrance he saw. “ _If you run right in, you’ll die, Dean_.” His dad’s voice still echoed in his head, sometimes.

His back was on the concrete, and he held the blade in his hand so tightly that he felt his fingers burn. He peeked over the corner of the wall, seeing silhouettes. There was a chair in the middle of the room, and a slumped figure was sitting in it.

The other silhouette was Rachel. It always struck Dean how small the people possessed looked. He knew from experience that what was inside of them was so cruel, so evil, and yet they looked… _human_. At least from a distance.

Rachel crouched down, putting her hand on the person in the chair. She silently stroked their face, crouched over. Then her head turned, directly to where Dean was standing. “How about you come out, Dean.”

Dean didn’t have time to reply before he felt himself get pulled into the warehouse, the huge room. He tried to fight it, which amounted (as it normally does) to some small steps backwards and tense muscles. Fighting the power of Demons is like fighting steel: it never works and you can’t move it.

As he was being pulled closer, he saw Rachel up close. Blonde, blue eyes, and so young. If Dean were seeing her for the first time he would have said she was seventeen. Turns out she was eighteen. Her eyes betrayed her, though. Only Demons can look with so much hate.

His knees hit the floor, and Dean let out a grunt, the Demon Blade scraping the floor as his arms stuck to his sides. He looked at the person in the chair: it was a boy. He was young too, couldn’t be any older than fifteen, and he was dead. Blood covered his face, his chest. Dean would have checked a pulse if he could move, but it would have been unnecessary. Anyone could have seen he was gone.

Rachel cracked a small smile. “It’s good to finally meet you, Dean. You’re quite the figure down in Hell.”

“Oh yeah, I’m a celebrity for sure.” He started fidgeting trying to move his arms from his sides. _I could really use a save here, Sam_.

“You underplay yourself.” She smiled a bit wider. “You’re not just famous, you’re legendary. I’m a big fan.”

Dean scoffed, his eyes at the concrete. “Well, sorry. I’d give you an autograph, but I’m a little preoccupied.”

Rachel let out a laugh, an inhuman laugh, before she looked down at Dean the way that monsters always look at the people they kill. “You’re funny, you’ve always been the funny one.” She started walking towards the chair, looking down at the dead kid. “That makes this whole situation so much more interesting.”

An icy feeling took over Dean, the one that comes when situations get bad. _Sam, it’s time to get out here._ “And what would that ‘situation’ be?” Dean has a smirk on his face, but as usual it was fake.

“Why, this whole Lucifer ordeal, of course. Must be painful, and - oh…” The demon looked over her shoulder. “You must be _reeling_ over Sam.”

Dean stiffened at that, tensing up like a bowstring. He plastered another smile on his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She faced him fully now. “Oh, don’t you? Let me guess…” she started, walking slowly towards him. “He’s not sleeping is he? Sometimes you catch him looking off in the distance. He goes away for hours, days at a time... ” She kneeled down in front of Dean, their faces close. Rachel smirked as she cocked her head to the side. “He’s been real quiet, hasn’t he?” she cooed.

Dean didn’t think he could plaster more disgust on his face. Maybe it would mask the fear. “And how would you know that?”

“I hear things,” she said with a smile. “Or rather, I heard things. Your brother may have been in a cage, but you can peek through the bars.” She plucked the Demon Blade from Dean’s hands, so easily. Rachel stood up.

 _“He’s been real quiet, hasn’t he?”_ He watched as she fiddled with the blade in her hands. Dean didn’t reply to her, or, at least, he tried not to. He’s rather impulsive even on normal occasions, and this wasn’t a normal occasion. “What did you hear?”

“Why Dean,” she started, looking up from the knife. “Do you expect me to betray my oath?” Sarcasm dripped from her words. Dean clenched his jaw, looking down at the floor. “Besides,” she started again, walking past the body in the chair. “Why tell you, when Sam can tell you himself?”

Dean snapped his head up, just as Rachel flicked her wrist, and Sam was dragged into the room.

\--

Sam would like to say he spent his time after the scream and after Dean was dragged into the room planning his next move, but that would have been a lie. Sam used to hate lies, but the more necessary they become, the more fond someone is to them.

No, he didn't spend his time planning. He spent it looking at the darkness. He could hear scattered words, but they sounded so far away. “Hell.” “Situation.” “Lucifer.”

Lucifer.

Sam stared into the darkness, where Dean was, where Rachel was, but he couldn’t move. He didn’t see them, though. He didn’t see anything, and no matter what he wanted, his muscles wouldn’t move. And he sat, and he stared at the darkness.

_“Dark, isn’t it Sammy? You’ll get used to it.”_

He lost track of time - he _always_ loses track of time. Then, he felt it. The pull of a demon power. It dragged him into the room, the dark room. There wasn’t a single light, and he could barely see Dean, or the Demon, or the boy who apparently died in the chair. _So that’s what the scream was_.

He could barely see Rachel, but he saw enough. He saw her malice, and her black eyes. Right now they were blue, but they looked black to him. The demon blade in her hands. Sam didn’t have a plan. Maybe he’d figure one out. Maybe not.

“Nice of you to join us, Sammy.” Sam was quiet for a little. It felt like a small time to him, but it probably felt longer to Rachel. An eternity to Dean. “Happy to be here.”

“Oh, I see you’ve inherited a little bit of your brother’s tongue.” She paced around, blade twirling in her hands. “That’s interesting… so _interesting_.”

She was leading up to something; all demons have a flair for the dramatic, trying to make deaths hurt more, one way or another, and Sam and Dean have always been favorites for that. Sam always had a guess what they would say. It’s one of the things he was good at: predicting. It was much more useful than counting, anyways. “And why is that?”

Her smile grew. “Well, I couldn’t help but notice that you haven’t been completely honest with your brother lately.” She leaned down so they were face to face. She looked so much more evil up close, but maybe that was just Sam’s imagination running away from him again. Or maybe not. “It’s because Lucifer’s back, isn’t it?” she whispered. “You’re remembering the cage again?”

Sam tried to distance himself from the dark room, the demon in front of him. He tried to be somewhere else. But no matter where he turned there was darkness. It was cold - what else is new - and Sam was tired. He was tired all of the time. He was about to die, he could be killed by his own knife at any moment right now, and all he could think about was finally going to _sleep_. Not the nightmare one, the type he had before he was in the cage. Oh how he missed that type of rest. “No,” Sam muttered. “I remember it all the time.” He looked up at Rachel. It was strange, but he didn’t feel as cold anymore. No - still cold, but his eyes felt like they were on fire, and his chest felt like it was melting. Not the type of pain he was used to. “You do too.”

Rachel seemed to coil back into herself. “And how would you know that?” She was scowling now. Sam had made her worry, even just a little bit. He should congratulate himself later.

Sam doesn’t smile, but this time he did crack a tiny grin when he let out a breathy chuckle. “I heard you watching.” It was a lie: Sam never heard or saw it, just assumed it was happening as he sat in the blood and cold and dark. But it was easy to assume things. Besides, he was good at guessing.

She swallowed. Sam decided to congratulate himself later for also throwing a demon off their plan. The celebration probably wouldn’t last long, but he hoped it would. He also hoped that when he celebrated that, for a moment, Other Sam would leave while he let loose, just for a bit. Let him sit and stare at the lights without a remark. He wasn’t here now, so maybe he wouldn’t be later.

Maybe he left forever.

Not true, but once lies become necessary one grows more fond of them.

Rachel stood up, turning over to Dean. “You know what he is, right?” She had lost some of her composure, she sounded almost angry now.

Dean seemed taken aback, bothered. He scowled slightly, his nose wrinkled at Rachel. It was his look of disgust. He only wears it when someone is getting to him, particularly a demon.

The demon didn’t seem bothered at his silence. “You see,” she started, kneeling down close to Dean. “He’s not a demon… but how sure are you that that thing over there is one-hundred percent pure Sam?” She spoke quietly, close to Dean.

The words felt like a knife to Sam, one that's pain was more delayed. He winced.

Sam dug his fingernails into his hand. When his eyes closed they began to burn. Not like there were tears - like they were being put on fire, like they were melting. The pain ratcheted through him, and he shuddered slightly. He didn’t see how Dean reacted to the words, but he told himself it didn’t matter.

He wasn’t going to let it matter.

Because it didn’t. He was still Sam, despite everything. Maybe he had suffered, and maybe some parts of him had changed, but he was still Sam. Because that’s who he was. Because suffering can’t change someone into someone different, right? Can it? No, it can’t.

He was still Sam. He was still Sam. He was still Sam.

Was he?

_Am I?_

His eyes were _burning_. God, why were they burning?

“He never sleeps, he never eats. Have you never wondered how he survives?”

_I know how._

_No. No. No, that’s not true. That’s not me._

Lies are more used the more necessary they become.

“I can see his soul, Dean? You want to know what it looks like?”

_No, no don’t say anything. Don’t tell him._

_Why are you always so goddamn worried about Dean knowing?_

God, his eyes were on fire. They burned. Nothing was cold anymore, he was burning up. _Fuck_ \- what was happening? No, he knew. Did he?

“Do you remember what it looked like when you had just finished ripping someone apart?”

It… wasn’t cold.

Nothing was cold anymore.

Why was everything burning? It never burned, never.

Because he doesn’t burn hot, he runs cold. That’s what he does.

“Do you remember sewing them back together again?”

He wasn’t cold.

Which means he wasn’t there.

The cage wasn’t here.

“He’s so bloody, so torn apart, I don’t even know what he is. Maybe Lucifer made him into a little spawn.”

 _Lucifer_.

Lucifer.

Sam’s eyes began to burn, more and more. The more he remembered. The burning seared his vision, everything was light now.

Lucifer.

“Speaking of which, I guess I should have told you earlier.”

Was he Sam? He didn’t feel like himself - or maybe he did.

Everything felt like it was on fire.

But it didn’t hurt anymore.

Nothing really did.

“I have a solution for your little Lucifer problem.”

 _Solution_.

Sam opened his eyes.

“What?” he breathed.

\--

Dean remembers.

He knows it happened a while ago, he knows he should be over it by now, he knows that it shouldn’t really impact anything anymore.

But he remembers.

Being tortured wasn’t the worst part of Hell. Torturing was. They offered it up to him every day when they ripped him apart. Every day for so long he told them to fuck off, stick it where the sun don’t shine. It was all so painful, but he really did try. He really did try to fight it, no matter what he tells himself late at night. But he finally said yes, everyone does. And when he finally said yes he changed everything. No, not the whole “seals” thing or the whole “Lucifer-walking-the-earth” thing. Sure, he changed that. But what really changed was _him_. It’s like something shifted, something that can never go back.

He changed.

He was happy back then, torturing souls. Because he wasn’t hurting. Because it wasn’t him behind the knife. It took him a long while up on the surface level to realize he was just hurting in a different way.

Sam helped him realize that.

And now his brother was sitting across from him, his eyes closed, and his face was blank.

Rachel was smiling down at him. “I have a solution for your little Lucifer problem.”

He looked over at Sam first. He’s known Sam his whole life, longer than Sam’s even known him. He didn’t think there was anything he could do that would surprise him _“What don’t I know about the kid?”_

But he had never seen that look on his face.

“What?” Dean saw his lips move. His eyes were wide, and they didn’t look _normal_. They looked red in the darkness, they looked confused, wide.

“Yeah.” Rachel stood up, knife in hand. “Have fun dying with that knowledge,” she snarled.

Sam was breathing hard. He looked up at Rachel, panicked. “You have to tell me.” His voice was like a whisper.

The demon let out a bark of laughter. “You’re funny.”

“No, no, you don’t understand.” His voice was desperate, rising in volume. “You _have_ to tell me.” He was shaking, violently shaking. Feverish, pale. He was breathing hard, hard enough that Dean could hear him. Dean tried to push against Rachel’s bindings again, grunting with the effort. He had seen Sam die enough times now.

“Like Hell I do.” She sneered at him.

Sam stood up.

He… stood up.

He was still shaking, and his eyes were wide, and Dean didn’t even think he knew what he was doing. Rachel froze, knife in hand. The smile fell from her face quickly. “How did you do that?” she breathed. She sounded so terrified.

“You have to tell me, _please_.” Sam took a stumbling step forward, and Rachel took one back in fear.

“What are you?” She turned around, looking at Dean. His eyes were wide. “What is he?”

Dean realized then that he had seen Sam look like that before.

He looked like when the Wall had just broken in his mind. When Bobby and Dean watched as Castiel destroyed Raphael in front of them, and they watched. When he had fallen on the ground, on glass, trembling so hard that the broken window scraped on the floor, scratching the concrete.

Just as Dean realized this, though, his face shifted. He didn’t look scared. His eyes narrowed, and he scowled. He changed so quickly. Almost like he had been possessed. But that was impossible-

Sam reached forward, grabbing Rachel by the shirt, and he pulled her close to his face. Dean couldn’t see his eyes anymore. “You _will_ tell me.”

Rachel screamed.

The demon screamed.

She wrested herself free of his grip, the demon blade clanging on the floor as she dropped it, and, just like that, Sam looked exactly like he did before. His eyes widened, he didn’t even seem to register that she had gotten away. She ran, ran to the closest exit, right by the moving cart. Sam stood there, his eyes still wide. He didn’t even look, just stared at the concrete.

And she kept running. Until she stopped.

Rachel tried to take another step forward. Then she looked down, and saw the pentagram.

\--

Sam would like to say that was the first time something like that had happened, but in reality it was the second.

Sam wouldn’t like to say that this time was much worse than the first, but in reality, it was.

Something else Sam would like to say is that he hated every moment of that, hated every moment of the heat and the burning and the power. But in reality, he didn’t. Forcing himself to stop, to start feeling the pain again, was like jumping into the cage all over again.

His eyes were still throbbing, and he could feel his hands shaking.

 _His hands_. He looked down at them.

They were clean. There was no blood, no cuts.

_“What did you cut your hand on, Sam?”_

Dean had stood up as soon as Rachel set foot in the pentagram. He rushed over to Sam, and Sam barely noticed as he put his hands on his shoulders. His eyes were wide, and they searched him up and down. Sam wasn’t there, though, in the warehouse. He was somewhere else.

You see, for Sam, going into his head isn’t just a metaphor, and being in his head isn’t a figure of speech. His head is a prison, made of darkness and blood and pain, and right now he was there, not here. Right now he felt blood all over his body, slick and cold, even though he _knew_ he was standing in a concrete room. Right now Dean’s eyes were glowing red, and full of malice, not terror.

Dean’s hands left Sam’s shoulders, picked up the demon blade from the floor. For a brief moment, the metal scraped on the concrete, and the sound surrounded Sam like the darkness. A horrible, gnarled sound in his head.

“How about you start talking.” He was talking to Rachel, maybe. He couldn’t really see anything. Every word Dean said echoed in his head like hammers against his skull. Pounding and pounding, a horrible clanging. Not a moment of silence.

Sam swayed. Spots were dancing in front of his eyes, painting his vision black, blacker than before. Sounds in his head that he couldn’t stop, and he felt feverish, and cold, and bloody.

He fell against a pillar nearby, his shoulder nearly slamming against the concrete, causing a fresh wave of nausea. He was going to fall apart, right there, he knew it.

He felt hands on him. Lucifer’s. Cold, cold hands. “ _Sam? Sammy?_ ”

“Sam?!” Dean shook his brother as he lay limp.

Yeah… yeah. Dean. This was Dean. Dean, his brother, who always makes snarky jokes and never leaves his side and has glowing red eyes.

Sam gripped his brother as hard as he could. “Just get the answers,” he gritted out. Once his hands fell, it was over from there. Really, it was all just darkness.

Because the thing about being in his head, it isn’t just a metaphor. Everything was gone besides him, and the Other Sam, standing across from him.

“You know this won’t work.”

Sam didn’t smile, but he did try to. “Yeah, but I have to try.”

“You mean you have to have ‘hope’?” A moment of silence, finally. Look where hope got him so far. “I guess so.”

Because that’s the thing about Sam. Being in his head isn’t just a metaphor, and he makes mistakes more than twice. Because how can you not talk to the things in your head when they’re the only things there are? Sam didn’t know, and no one had ever shown him.

He would just have to wait out this time, wait for the darkness to clear, and to start seeing the light again.

Until then, he would just have to wait.

\--

Dean has always tried his best to be as simple as he could. He was never one to believe in a greater good, or a greater evil, or really anything like that, because he never really saw the point. He didn’t care if there was some greater purpose, he just wanted what he wanted. He always left the philosophical musings to Sam, and then Cas, later on.

Really, Dean tried to live his life based on one thing, though. The one thing he could never lose: his family. He lost his mom, early on, and then he lost his dad. But, in reality, and the more he thought about it in late nights watching the bright light under Sam’s door, he realized that he _could_ lose them.

It’s a hard thing to admit: that you could lose someone. It’s like telling yourself you were responsible for their death in a way.

Every time someone close to him died - Mom, Dad, Bobby - it felt like a part of him broke off. And it was always up to Sam to find that piece and put it back. And he never failed.

He can’t lose Sam. Because if he loses Sam, he’ll lose all those little parts of him.

And right now he was losing the one thing he can’t.

So he really didn’t care about a greater good or evil, right now. He’d leave that to the voice in his head, every night following this, or to Sam, when he got better, or Cas, when he came back. He just cared about getting this bitch to talk.

“You said you have a solution. Tell me.”

“Why so lonely, Dean?” Her eyes turned black. “Sam out of office today?” She wrinkled her nose over to Sam, who was crouched on the floor, staring at the concrete with a blank expression.

_“Just get the answers.”_

“I’m asking the questions. What did you mean by ‘solution’?”

Rachel cocked her head. “None of your business.”

Dean heard Sam whisper something to himself. “ _I guess so_.” His eyes were wide, and he stared at the floor.

He gripped Rachel’s hand inside the pentagram, and yanked her to the edge. She yelped, and when her arm hit the edge of the paint, and she winced. Dean was quick when he slashed his knife on her wrist, watching her skeleton flicker orange. She hissed through her teeth, her eyes black, still. “Like Hell this isn’t my business,” Dean replied quietly, putting his face close to hers. “Tell me what you know.”

“You’re so afraid of losing Sam, you can’t even see it, can you?” she rasped, putting hatred in every word. “He’s already gone. He might as well be dead.”

Dean plunged the demon blade into her gut, watching her soul flicker again. It wouldn’t kill her. Gut wounds take hours to kill. She screamed as it happened, and in that moment Dean forgot that this was a demon possessing an innocent girl, and he honestly didn’t care.

Because he has one purpose, and he can’t fail.

“A spell!” Rachel shrieked. Dean took the knife out, and she collapsed on the floor. “It’s just… a rumor…” she panted.

“Wow, you cracked easy.” Dean kneeled down to meet her dead eyes. “Tell me more about this spell.”

\--

They played rock, paper, scissors, and since Dean lost again, he was the one who had to call in the bodies at the warehouse. It was really just a formality, they would be long gone by the time anyone got there, and those two kids would be long dead.

When the darkness left Sam, Rachel was lying in a pool of her own blood on the floor, and when Sam walked over to Dean, he said he had found a solution.

It really couldn’t have been more vague, though.

“She said, we had to find something really powerful from Heaven, something really powerful from Hell, and a soul that’s seen both.”

Sam’s head was rested against the window of the Impala as he watched the dark Virginia countryside fly by. The sun was nice, high in the sky. Led Zeppelin was playing, again.

“So we should probably contact Cas,” Sam said, watching signs with the speed limit fly by, faster than they were supposed to.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean replied, dismissively. “But first,” he turned his head over to Sam. “You’re going to tell me what’s been going on with you.”

Sam swallowed. “What are you-”

“Don't even start that bullshit with me, Sam.” His eyes were burning into him. “What’s been going on? What’s with the… the whole not sleeping thing, and the quiet for long periods, and what the _fuck_ happened back there in the warehouse?”

Oh yeah. The warehouse.

That moment, in the warehouse, when he had forgotten all the pain and his eyes had burned, and nothing was cold, and the darkness was gone.

Yeah, Sam knew what happened back at the warehouse.

But Dean didn’t need to know.

Sam shook his head, looking at the dark scenery, letting the silence fill the car. Well, not really silence. There was Led Zeppelin playing. But it was close enough.

“Sam.” He slapped Sam’s shoulder.

Sam sighed, looking straight forward, at the road. Darkness was obscuring Dean, in the corner of his vision. “Dean, I get it. You’re concerned--” Dean scoffed, but Sam pressed on. “But right now we don’t have time for that.” He looked over at Dean to the closest thing he could get to eye contact while he was driving. “I… _we_ need to find Lucifer.”

“Yeah well if you keep this up, you’ll die before we even get there!”

To that, Sam paused, and then looked to the corners of the car, in the shadows, into glowing red eyes, and blood, and darkness darker than he knew, and cage bars, and everything he remembered in every moment when nothing else could be thought of. He saw everything his life was.

“Well, for both our sakes, you better hope I don’t.”


	2. Oh, Castiel. When will you learn?

“Hey, Cas. This is Dean. Again. Listen, I know that you’re probably tied up with… I don’t know, angel shit? But uh… we got something promising down here. So you know, get your ass back to the bunker.”

…

…

“Mom is coming down, back from Canada. You know how she left. I’m good, by the way, in case you were wondering in that little Silver City up there. Yeah and Sam…”

…

…

“Don’t be worried about Sam not praying to you, okay? He’s just… well he’s not angry at you, okay? He’ll come to his senses, I guess I’m just a bit worried about him. I mean, I know you weren’t here, but some things happened, while we got the lead and… uh…” 

…

…

“So, anyways. I’m going to just, wait, I guess. Get you ass back here fast, okay? We need you.” 

\---

Sometimes Sam can remember, and sometimes he can’t. For example, no matter how hard he thinks about it, he can’t remember the first time he met Castiel. He remembers some emotions: shock, regret. He thinks he was inside. But he can’t remember specifics, like anything that was said, or exactly what he did, or where it was. As far as Sam is concerned, one day he didn’t know angels existed, and the next one of them was his friend. 

On the other hand, something he does remember is when Castiel pulled him out of the cage. That was back when Adam was there, and Sam was counting the days. It was day thirty-one. On day thirty-one Michael and Lucifer began another fight, and Adam and Sam were sitting, watching. And then Sam saw pure light, and he heard the words: “Sam Winchester is saved.” 

Light isn’t something Sam was used to seeing in the thirty-one days he was there, but he really hadn’t been down there long enough to forget what it looked like. The light didn’t burn his eyes, it was welcome. Because back then Sam counted the days, and he remembered what his friends looked like. And Castiel was a friend. 

Then he felt his body and his soul rip apart from each other. Sam has trouble discerning memories from then on out. Really, all he can remember is Hell, and every so often a flash of a memory when he was without a soul pops up, out of nowhere. Did he really shoot a bartender? He doesn’t know. But after a while of being topside, he got used to being a little confused a lot of the time. 

He tried to be angry at Castiel. He has a lot of reasons to be angry at Castiel. He ripped him apart, tore up the wall in his mind, and released Lucifer from his prison, the prison Sam put him in. 

The prison Sam threw himself in the cage for. 

But he’s not angry. At least, he doesn’t think he is. He has a lot of reasons to be, but he’s not. Maybe because he forgave him, but probably because he has bigger problems. 

_ “Something really powerful from Heaven, something really powerful from Hell, and a soul that’s seen both.” _ Not very specific, and not very helpful. 

And yet, his best lead. 

Sam’s dealt with worse.

He was more staring at his laptop screen than looking at it. Maybe because there wasn’t anything he could look up that would help him, but probably because he couldn’t focus. 

Sam had taken to working at the kitchen table rather than his room, a fruitless attempt to convince Dean he was getting better. He was starting to wonder why he was bothering, though, because it seemed as if Dean was spending all of his time calling Castiel. 

When Dean walked into the kitchen, he had a troubled look on his face, as usual. Sam pretended to look at his screen again. 

_ Something powerful. _

_ Something powerful.  _

Sam rubbed the space key, frowning. There were a lot of powerful things in Heaven and Hell, some of the most powerful things. None of the books in the library seemed to be complying, and Sam was almost convinced to shut down Wikipedia. 

“Found anything?” Dean asked through his mouthful of poptarts. 

Sam sighed. “No. As it turns out, super vague clues from demons aren’t helpful. Who knew?” 

Dean gestured his head to the laptop. “Well when Cas and Mom get here it’ll get easier.”

Yeah. Cas and Mom. 

“Mary--Mom is arriving on Friday, right?”

“Yep.” He took another big bite of his strawberry poptart. 

Sam put his fingers on the bridge of his nose. The lights were always so dark in here, and it bothered him. Gave him a headache. “Great.” 

Dean sat in silence for a little bit. Sam was very good at predicting, a skill he honed, which is why he knew his next comment was going to be about Castiel.

“Yeah, and… Castiel hasn’t come back yet, so…” he trailed off. Poor Dean. He looked so lost. He spent so long looking into the face of a different Dean in the cage that, now that he was upside, he looked so much more emotional, all the time. A far cry from the version of him he got used to. 

“Yeah, well, you’ve been praying, right?” 

Dean sighed. “Yeah. His angel phone should be fucking overloading right now.” Uncharacteristically, he paused for a moment. Then, “have you prayed to him at all?”

There it is. He knew the question was coming, but that didn’t mean he wanted to answer it. Sam sighed, closing his laptop (not like it was much use anyways). It was time to tackle the problem: how was he going to tell Dean that he hasn’t talked to their close ‘friend’ since he came back? “No.”

“So, what? You’re still angry at him?” His eyes didn’t really meet Sam’s. Dean was trying to play off that he cared less than he did. A classic move that rarely ever worked. 

Sam looked at the lights over him. They were dimmer than he would like. “No, not really.”

“Then, what? What is it?”

Sam craned his head to the side, looking over at Dean. He had stopped eating the poptarts. Maybe he had finished them. “Do I really need to have a reason to not talk to him?”

Dean sighed again. “I’m just... wondering how long you’re going to hang onto this.”

“You mean how long I’m not going to talk to someone who released Lucifer?”

He flinched at those words, going silent for a moment. “Okay, listen I…” Dean searched for the right words. “I know he made mistakes, okay? But--”

“But what?” Sam interrupted, quietly. He didn’t really say much, but Dean immediately went silent. That was a skill Sam perfected in the last few weeks: cultivating silence. Quiet, control. It was silly to think he could have these things with Lucifer on the horizon and Dean right in front of him and Castiel in the sky and with the lights so dim, but lies are necessary, and he’s fond of them. 

Sam was good at predicting. What would Dean say next? Probably that Castiel was still one of the good guys, that we needed to stick together, that we needed each other if we were going to get through this. 

It was a speech he vaguely recalled from before, but for the life of him he just couldn’t remember from where. 

He just couldn’t remember. 

What would he say then? That he wasn’t going to get through this whether he had Castiel by his side of not? That he was lost the second the hole opened up and the cage became his world again? The truth? 

No, he doubts Dean likes the truth any more than he does. 

But Dean was right he knew as he watched his eyes nervously shift from one end of the room to another, searching for words. A part of him was speaking the truth when he said that Castiel should be forgiven. Haven’t they all made mistakes? Sam can’t quite remember, he can’t remember anything anymore. He can recall the biggest mistake he made, though, in a church where the shadows beneath the seats were dark but his eyes were darker and everything was changed. 

A Sam from before would have forgiven Castiel already. Would he? He can’t remember, but he assumed he would have. 

_ “So, what? You’re still angry at him?” _

Truth was, he wasn’t angry at Castiel. Or, at least, he didn’t think he was. He just didn’t care, which maybe was worse. He didn’t care enough to pray to him, didn’t care when he was coming back, and he didn’t care that he released the one thing Sam was afraid of. 

At least, he didn’t think he did. But he did care about Dean getting off his case, because as long as Dean was on his case, he was far less productive. 

And there’s only one thing in this world Sam can’t take, and he needs to prevent it. That calls for productivity. So it was time for damage control.

“Here,” he said as he put his two hands together over his laptop. Dean raised an eyebrow as he closed his eyes. “Hey, Cas. It’s me, Sam.” He could almost imagine Castiel listening, wherever he was. Sam took that as a sign the whole praying thing was working. “We got a lead on our whole… situation. Get down here.” When he opened his eyes it was a welcome reprieve from the darkness. He looked over at Dean who, disappointedly, didn’t look any more satisfied. 

Dean sighed, and left the kitchen. 

Turns out his plate had another poptart on it. 

\---

Dean always has a lot of things to be worried about. His mom coming back, Lucifer being free from the cage, Sam’s weirdo lapse back in the warehouse. 

And Cas wasn’t answering his goddamn calls. 

Every time he opened up a book or computer, all he could think about was how much of a help he would be. At least, how much of a help having  _ anyone  _ with him. Sam certainly wasn’t. For one of the first times in a very long time, Sam was gone. Here, but gone. 

And that was a weird feeling. 

Dean closed the tabs on his computer. “PTSD.” “Effects of Torture.” “Flashbacks.” He couldn’t shake the memory of the warehouse, however much he wanted to. Over the last week Sam had seemed to be improving, if only slightly. He finally began leaving his room, the bright lights finally turned off, he began to speak more, become less silent. Sure, the bags under his eyes were still dark, and his skin was still pale, and he still researched constantly, but he was better. He seemed to be better. 

And yet he couldn’t shake the memory, couldn’t forget. How Sam went from nearly begging the demon for the information, terrified and shaking, and how that stopped so fast. How, in a single moment, he seemed to shift. Into someone else. 

Dean opened a new tab. “Possession.” It was stupid, there was no way Sam got posessed, it was impossible. There was no black smoke, no bright light. 

But, then again, Dean didn’t see his eyes. He didn’t see Sam’s eyes when he grabbed Rachel. 

Maybe he said yes to Lucifer again. 

No, that was impossible. 

Was it?

God, he wished Cas were here. He could tell Dean he was being stupid, or say that he was right, that something really was wrong with Sam, and that he didn’t have to save him alone, and that it wasn’t hopeless, and that everything could be normal again, and that Sam wasn’t broken, and that Sam hadn’t changed. 

Or maybe he could just sit there in silence while they all researched together. That would be enough. 

_ “I… we need to find Lucifer.” _

He remembered how he looked when he said that. There were dark, dark bags under his eyes. In the bright countryside background his skin looked more pale than ever. There was black paint on his hands, and one, single bloodstain on his sleeve, where he had cut his hand. The cut had disappeared.

And he didn’t look like Sam. He looked like someone else, something terrified, and hiding, and desperate. 

He had seen Sam when he was terrified, and hiding, and desperate, but he had never seen him look like that. 

Dean can’t lose his brother. 

But remembering how he acted in the warehouse, the switch that flipped, and how he spoke so quietly, and his eyes seemed to look into dark corners where nothing was, and how he didn’t sleep, and never started conversations, he was beginning to wonder if he already had. 

\---

Sam was sitting in the kitchen, and Dean was sitting in his room, and they were both looking at laptops, but neither of them were reading the screen. Both of them were thinking about their brother. Both of them were scared, but in different ways, for different reasons. 

Dean can’t lose his brother. Sam can’t lose himself. But aren’t both the same thing? 

They both wondered where their little angel was. Dean longed for him, because for Dean, longing for Cas was his way of saying he needed him. Sam was wary of him, because for Sam, trusting Castiel is the same as hoping, and he doesn’t do that. 

Castiel was thinking about them both, in a way. 

\---

Heaven wasn’t as Castiel remembered, namely because he had to sneak in. 

It wasn’t a surprise for him. He had deferred to the side of humanity countless times before, he had executed them in universal numbers, he had caused them all to fall. 

And, most recently, he had released the one scourge to the world, for the second time. 

He remembers Heaven being warm, bright light, as far as he could see. Nearly picture perfect. Maybe he never had a choice, but he never truly needed one. It wasn’t just paradise, it was home. At least, it  _ was _ . It took two boys and a drunk old man to show him that it wasn’t. 

At least, it wasn’t the home he wanted, anymore. 

Nobody had wanted to talk to him. That wasn’t a surprise to Castiel. Why would anyone want to talk to him after all the mistakes he had made? When he sat in the light-filled world, his mind would flash back to the time he had left so many times. Dean’s tight hug (he always gave good hugs). Sam’s absence. 

It was fine. He understood. Why would anyone want to talk to him after all the mistakes he had made? 

Of course, that didn’t stop the tight feeling in his chest. Castiel didn’t have a heart, no angel did, but the closer he became to humanity the more he felt like he did. The more he felt like maybe, just maybe, there was a little thing beating in his chest. It was a comforting thought: to be more human. 

He had left that realm the second he heard Dean’s voice. It’s not like he was welcome anyway, and like any angels were interested in picking a fight with Lucifer. 

_ “Hey Cas, it’s good to talk to you.”  _ The second he heard that voice he was filled with happiness. The kind you only get when you hear the voice of someone you trust, more than anyone. 

He only trusts two people like that. He’s only heard one of their voices. 

The Waffle House he was sitting in was nearly devoid of people, save for a couple in the back he was nearly certain were either inebriated or, as Dean would put it, “stoned out of their minds.” Dean’s voice echoed in his head, and he closed his eyes to savor every word. 

_ “Hey, Cas. This is Dean. Again. Listen, I know that you’re probably tied up with… I don’t know, angel shit?” _ Cas let out a small chuckle.  _ “But uh… we got something promising down here. So you know, get your ass back to the bunker.” _

Castiel wished more than anything, in that moment, that he could give them a message back. _ “I’m coming, I’m so sorry. I’m coming.” _

_ “Thank you for still wanting me.” _

He wished he could fly there right now to be there with them. To apologize, to help. 

A strange thing, to wish. Before he became enamored with humanity he never had to wish, never even thought that that was possible. But now he had a heart, and it wished. 

It wished for a lot of things, changing every day. But the one thing he wished for was to fix his mistake.

Mistakes.

Another thing that came with humanity. 

_ “Don’t be worried about Sam not praying to you, okay? He’s just… well he’s not angry at you, okay?” _ Castiel felt his heart, again. 

When Castiel left the empty restaurant, the sky was full of stars. Humans wouldn’t have been able to see it, due to all the city lights, but he could see it. They all glimmered in the sky, and they seemed to wheel over Earth like a pendulum, like a shifting painting. 

The stars, all so bright. 

He looked at the stars before he made his decision, the wrong decision, but he tried not to think about it. But maybe that was the problem. 

Because Sam was thinking about it, and so was Dean, and everything about it probably hurt them inside. That was something he learned early about humans: sometimes the pain they feel inside is worse than the ones on the outside. 

Castiel wanted to understand. He longed to understand. To see Dean and Sam. To apologize. To fix his mistake. 

He just didn’t know how. Another way he was more human than he thought. 

\---

Sam used to ask himself questions a lot, but this was before everything. He would ask himself why he was doing what he was doing, and who he could trust, and how much he was willing to lose, and what the solutions were, and what the answers would be, and what the right thing to do was. He asked everything, because everything was a question, especially himself. 

But he doesn’t do that anymore. He doesn’t know why, because he doesn’t ask. Maybe because he’s sure of himself now, maybe because he doesn’t have the energy to question, maybe because he has bigger issues. He knows what he is now. There’s only one question left for him to ask, and eventually answer. 

If Sam were living his time before the cage, he would ask himself why he was so apathetic about Castiel. And he would have searched his mind almost endlessly for the answer. 

This Sam knew the answer, though. 

“You can’t just hide from yourself, Sam.” The red eyes pierced into Sam. He was lurking in the kitchen corner, lounging against the fridge. He always wore the same thing. 

But he tried not to look. At the darkness, or the cold, or the blood red color. He had bigger issues. He did. 

“Eventually this will all catch up to you.”

Sam took a deep breath. He can’t speak to him, not now. Dean was within earshot. 

That was fine, though. Sam can go a long, long time without speaking. He was the all time heavyweight champ, and he will never be usurped. 

So why doesn’t Sam care about Castiel? 

Sam knows the answer. 

“How much longer can you survive like this?”

That was a question. Sam doesn’t ask those anymore, but Other Sam does. That’s another difference between them. There were a lot of differences, but also a lot of similarities. 

One similarity is that they both remember the darkness. The cold, and pain, the blood. They both remember the glowing red eyes and the question, and the silence. How after a while Sam couldn’t even speak. How before that sometimes his screams would be more painful than the wound. 

One difference is that only one of them remembers the pain, and only one of them feels anything at all. 

That didn’t matter though. He had bigger issues. 

But to be honest… that wasn’t true. 

And that’s why Sam doesn’t care about Castiel. 

\---

There’s a feeling, one that people don’t really talk about. There’s situations that surround it, but there really aren’t words. Helpless doesn’t really fit. Desperate doesn’t either. Nothing quite encapsulates it. 

The feeling is this: you’re sitting in your room, a familiar place which you know, which you have known your entire life. It is a place you feel safe. But now, you are chained there in your room. You’re fastened against the wall, and you can’t move. In this room with you is everything you care about, everyone you care about. And you are chained to a wall. Someone lights the room on fire, and unchains you. Now what do you do, now that the flames cannot be stopped? Do you attempt to put out the fire? Do you escape, leaving your entire life behind? Do you search for the person responsible, so that they may be punished in the last moments there are? 

See, the scenario is, in summary, you’re about to lose everything, so what would be the last thing you do? What is you one, true value? It’s a dilemma. Some say the problem with the scenario is that there are too few solutions. Some say it is the overwhelming amount of solutions that makes it painful to imagine. This scenario is exactly what Dean Winchester is going through, whether or not he knows it now. 

The bunker is always silent nowadays. Before Lucifer came back it was never really silent. Something was always being cooked in the kitchen, conversations floated around the hallways. It was never quiet. 

When Sam got quiet is when everything changed for real. Sam is like a rock. He’s the one that always has a solution, always can come up with an idea. He points Dean in the right direction, and he’s always the first to forgive. That’s Sam. 

But then he got quiet. Dean knew it had something to do with his time in the cage, and that was the first time Dean realized that Sam had never told him anything about his time in Hell. This wasn’t Sam, to Dean. This was a new Sam. A haunted Sam that never speaks and never sleeps and disappears for days at a time and sometimes speaks to nobody and shows up with blood on him for no reason. 

This was a new Sam that suddenly shifts, without a moment's notice, into somebody else. This was a new Sam that wouldn’t tell Dean what was wrong. This was a new Sam who doesn’t care about anything. 

Dean knew it had something to do with what Lucifer did to him. Something that that bastard did to his brother. He had to fix it. 

Everything was burning, and he knew who lit the match. 

He can’t leave Sam. He would never leave Sam. 

He can’t fix Sam. He doesn’t even know how to. 

He can’t punish Lucifer. 

So what can he do? 

When people encounter this type of scenario, it’s hard for one of two reasons: they think they are out of options, or they think that there are too many to choose from. 

For Dean, though, it’s hard for a different reason. It’s hard because he thinks he can still put the fire out. 

\---

Cas saw a payphone, but he didn’t use it. 

Maybe that was another mistake: not calling the Winchesters. But he really didn’t want to talk to them. 

No, that was a lie. He really wanted to talk to them. He wanted to hear Dean’s voice and Mary’s motherly clucking and… 

He wanted to hear Sam’s forgiveness. Not even that, he just wanted to hear Sam. It had been four weeks since he had spoken to him. Castiel never counted days before he fell in love with humanity, but now he does. All the time. 

And right now, every day he was counting seemed to grow the pit in his stomach more and more and more. He didn’t have a stomach before all of this either. 

The bus ride would take him three miles from the bunker. Plenty of time to think. The sun was high in the sky, another thing humans couldn’t see, because it was raining. The vehicle was very bumpy, unruly. Cas didn’t like buses all that much. He would much rather be riding in the Winchester’s car, or as Dean affectionately calls it, Baby. That vehicle wasn’t like a bus. It never bumped around without reason or stopped to pick up other people. It was almost like a second home. 

Home. 

That’s another thing that angels don’t have. A heart, wishes, a home. Castiel had to discover all of those things like gems. 

Guilt. Angels don’t feel guilt. 

When he discovered that one, it was less like a gem, and more like a curse. 

He still remembers Sam’s face as he told him he had let out Lucifer. Castiel could barely speak, he was still so shocked. So shocked that everything had gone so wrong, so shocked that he had misjudged so badly. 

Castiel had watched humanity for as long as he can remember, which is a long time. He watched as they crawled out of the ocean, and the Tower of Babel, and he watched every sin, and every good deed. He watched humanity. He couldn’t be shocked. 

But there he was, shocked. Because he had made such a big mistake, and because he had never seen a human look as terrified, as disbelieving, as horrified as Sam did the moment he realized. The english language doesn’t have words for it. Not even Enochian. It was like Sam’s worst nightmares became real. Like his whole world came crashing down. 

Castiel had never seen it before. Certainly not with Sam. When he first met Sam, he thought he was unstable, erratic. The Boy with Demon Blood. That was what the angels called him. 

But then he realized when he saw him jump into the pit: Sam isn’t the erratic one, he isn’t unstable. He’s like… well Dean would say he’s like a rock. 

He had never seen his rock look so shaken. 

And now it was his turn to make it right, to make everything right. He didn’t care what it took, didn’t care what he had to sacrifice. He had to be forgiven. 

He had to hear Sam’s voice. 

Which is why, when Sam’s voice echoed in his head, that Castiel nearly jumped from his seat. 

_ “Hey, Cas. It’s me, Sam.” _ Castiel had almost forgotten what his voice sounded like.  _ “We got a lead on our whole… situation. Get down here.” _

Cas waited, for a little bit, to see if that was the end of the message. Turns out it was. 

That’s when Castiel realized that maybe he wanted to hear Sam’s forgiveness after all. 

\---

Dean was thinking about Castiel, again. 

Truth be told, he was thinking about everything, and not willingly. If it were up to Dean, he’d forget it all: Lucifer, Hell, demons, everything. If he forgot everything, maybe everything wouldn’t hurt so much. 

But it didn’t matter: he does remember. He remembers when Sam was a fun-loving kid who smiled at every person he could find. He remembers that time his brother walked towards him, his very first steps. He remembers Sam watching Star Wars the first time and falling in love, and how much he wanted to find happiness. 

He remembers when Sam jumped in the pit. How he looked so scared, but he nodded to Dean once, as if saying “I’m going to do this. I can do this.” Dean had to watch as his brother went into the chasm. He had to stop himself from jumping up, ripping his brother away from it. He would have done it, too. He would have given up the entire world to stop his brother from going in there. 

There’s nothing Dean wishes for more than that he could go back to that moment, stop Sam. 

But he didn’t, and now it was all different. Now Sam didn’t smile, and he doesn’t look to Dean anymore, and he doesn’t want happiness. Or maybe he just gave up.

Dean knew--he _ knew _ \--that Lucifer did this to him. Knew it in the way that Sam seemed to recoil when he heard Lucifer’s name. Knew it in the way that he says the word “cage.” Knew it in the way that he becomes a different person when he starts to remember. 

_ “You  _ will  _ tell me.”  _

He had already broken into Sam’s room, and despite the bright lights, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Everything seemed so… characteristic. Almost like Sam was trying to make it seem normal, as if nothing was amiss. He’s been hiding everything, thinking he’s concealing it when in reality it was just making Dean more and more worried. Like a key, turning a lock over and over in his flesh, winding him up more and more. 

Dean didn’t know why Sam was hiding everything from him. He didn’t know what it was he had to hide. 

But he just wished Castiel was here. 

Because if he was here, then he wouldn’t be alone. If he was here, he would know he wasn’t crazy. If he was here, he would help them. 

Castiel would help. 

He always had. 

\---

Castiel stood outside the door to the bunker for six hours. He made sure he counted. 

Angels don’t get a heart, or wishes, or guilt, or a home. But when Castiel decided to become more human, he learned another concept that angels don’t get: procrastination. 

But it wasn’t just like he was standing outside a door. He was contemplating the entire conversation he would have, he was making lists of all the things he should say. “I’m sorry,” followed right after “hello.” And right after “I’m sorry” came another “I’m sorry.” Really, his plan was to say that as many times as he could until he was believed. He figured that would work. 

He wasn’t just making lists, either. He was also trying to brace himself for seeing them again. Dean and Sam and Mary. He was trying to imagine what their faces would look like, the expressions that would paint them. He needed to brace himself for the hatred, or maybe he was bracing himself for the smiles he was hoping he would receive. 

Many times when he was thinking of all these things he contemplated not going in at all. Just leaving, and not having to deal with what followed. But he knew he couldn’t do that either. He couldn’t just leave them like that. Besides, where else did he have to go?

The door was seven by three feet. It was a normal door, metal, and he could open it whenever he wanted. 

But he just wasn’t able to, for some reason. 

So for six hours he stood there, not moving even a little bit. The sun began to set behind him. The night sky was beginning to show itself. It was a beautiful sight. 

And, after six hours of waiting, it was the night sky that convinced him to enter the bunker. 

It reminded him of the night sky after the apocalypse. Baby was rumbling, speeding down a road, some random road outside of Lawrence, Kansas. When Sam was gone. Dean asked him, then, what he was going to do. He had paused. Then, “return to heaven, I suppose.”

Dean didn’t like that answer. Cas could see, in his heart, that he was hurting. He was angry. He said something. Something about how he was coming for God, how he was hurting, how he had lost everything. No grand prize.

And then Castiel said to him: “You got what you asked for, Dean.” 

Castiel took a step towards the three by seven foot metal door. 

“No paradise, no Hell. Just more of the same.”

He put one palm on the metal handle. 

“I mean it, Dean. Which would you rather have: peace, or freedom?”

Castiel opened the door.

\---

It took a while for Sam to realize he wouldn’t be getting his grand prize. 

When he left the cage, it had been a very, very long time since he had seen anything besides the darkness, and a long time before he felt anything besides cold. He saw Dean for the first time after he remembered everything, and Lucifer began talking in his head, and he wondered, as the scar on his hand seemed to stab into him, what his grand prize was. 

Everyone is supposed to get one, especially after an ordeal. A Happily Ever After, a Grand Championship Cup, the grand prize. A nice life without any trouble, without any pain. It’s a reward for sacrifice. 

It took Sam a long time to realize he wouldn’t be getting one, and it was around the time Dean and Castiel took their vacation to purgatory. 

He remembers it clearly: he had just disposed of a box of Leviathan heads, tossing the bolted chest into the river, watching as it flowed downstream, into the dark waters. His hands were bloody, and they burned with chemicals, and the salty stench of flesh shifted through the air. 

Sam looked into the darkness, and all he felt was pain, and he realized that it would never stop, he would never be free, and he would never leave the cage, and so he made the first of many mistakes. 

A horrible mistake. 

He knew it was Castiel coming through the door before he saw him. Who else could it be? But more than that, he could feel an angelic presence, something Sam almost felt a need to shy away from. He didn’t shy away from it when he was in the cage, but that was a different time with a different Sam, a Sam from before that he just can’t quite remember no matter how hard he tries. 

As a courtesy, he looked up. Castiel looked as he always did, almost to a T. Trenchcoat, blue eyes, no wings. Castiel. In the flesh (maybe? Sam never really wrapped his head around how that worked). 

Yeah, this was Castiel. The same Castiel. 

Sam braced himself for a wave of emotion to overcome him. That’s what should happen, shouldn’t it? He could have sworn that’s what happened before when things like this happened. A wave of pain, of anger, of sadness, happiness. One of those. Maybe all of them? Sam can’t remember.

And he did feel a wave, but he didn’t understand it, and it all felt so far away. He felt distant, like he could barely see everything before him, but he was close enough to touch it. He felt like he was drifting absently in space and everything was empty. But he felt something beneath the surface, somewhere he didn’t understand. It felt dangerous, like it was barely tethered down. It felt like a wild animal. 

It felt like someone else, from before. But he can’t quite remember.

The more he thought about it, the more it felt like he was staring into the darkness again. Sam stood up to alert Dean to Cas’ arrival, but when he looked over at the hallway he was already standing in it with wide eyes. 

“Cas.” 

Castiel’s eyes went nearly as wide. He took a step forward, as if to make his way over to him, but stopped himself short. He looked down. “Dean, I--”

He was cut off by a huge hug. Dean always gives good hugs, and he doesn’t hesitate to give them out. That was something Sam had missed, when Castiel and him had gone to Purgatory. It was a long moment, of them just hugging. Sam was leaning against the doorframe, thinking about how maybe now he could go and work in his room again instead of the kitchen, now that Dean wouldn’t be alone. 

And he wondered how the conversation with Castiel would go, when it inevitably happened. The apology. He hadn’t really bothered to think about it before now, but he reckoned he should have. He should be more prepared. But, honestly, how could he prepare? How does one say to someone, “I just don’t care”?

Sam is accustomed to lies. But he wondered if he could tell that one and know if it was true or not. 

“It’s good to have you back.” Dean was smiling for the first time in a while. That was good. Castiel looked like he was about to throw up. That was bad. Sam felt a sting of guilt, again. He was passing worried glances over to Sam, like Sam was about to explode, or rip into him. 

This happened before, didn’t it? Castiel has had to do this before? He thinks so, but he can’t recall. 

Castiel was silent for a moment, his eyes wide. “Sam…” he started, breaking from Dean’s circle. Dean looked almost as nervous as he did. “I…” he started searching for a word, stammering. 

Sam could guess what he would say right there.  _ “I’m so sorry. I know you can’t forgive me. I’m here to help. I can’t tell you enough how sorry I am. I feel so guilty. I understand.” _

_ “I understand.” _

Sam didn’t like that one. He felt a heat begin to settle over him. Castiel didn’t “understand,” and Sam had no interest sitting here and listening to the apologies. Because he didn’t care. Well, maybe he did care. But it certainly didn’t matter. And even if it did, it wouldn’t be worth it. 

“It’s fine.” He felt the words leave his mouth before he even thought about them. 

He might as well have dunked cold water over Castiel. 

He stared at Sam blankly, his mouth slightly ajar, eyes wide. “What?” he said after a grateful moment of silence. He was a far cry from how he was when Sam had first met him. When he had first met him he was cold, calculating. Well… he thinks. He can’t quite remember when they met. Sam liked him better now, but it was harder to deal with. He shook his head. ‘Sam--” 

“It’s fine.” Sam tried to put some finality into the two words this time. He felt bad, a small part of him did. A small part of him, the part of him that still speaks, wanted to say everything.  _ “I have bigger things to deal with. I understand. I don’t care. You’re forgiven.” _

And then another, even smaller part of him, wanted to say something different. That was the part of him Sam doesn’t talk about, because it tells the truth, and everyone knows he’s fond of lies, because they’re necessary.  _ He  _ wanted to say  _ “you destroyed everything. You don’t understand what you did to me, and you never will. That’s why you made this mistake. I can’t forgive you because how could I?” _

Sam didn’t like that part of him. Actually he didn’t really like many parts of him, but he just uses the cards he was dealt with. 

He still felt a little bad when he left Castiel in the lobby, going to his room. But he could really use some bright lighting, as a treat for all his small compromises. 

Sam doesn’t get a grand prize, or a happy ending. He doesn’t get a life where everything hasn’t changed. 

So he needs to appreciate the little things.

\---

There’s a difference between a person dying, and their soul dying. That was something Castiel realized in the beginnings of watching humanity. 

Everyone dies, of course. No human lives forever (though the Winchesters were certainly pushing their luck), and eventually their thread is cut, and they can’t stay anymore, and the reapers come and collect their souls and make a final judgement and send them to an eternity. But there’s a difference between when a person dies, and when their soul dies. Anyone can die, but there’s a difference between someone accepting that fact and someone fighting it. 

For example, Castiel watched Sam die, back in the ghost town where his fate was supposed to be sealed. The knife sunk into his back, and the blood colored his jacket, and he was so confused when the reaper came, as if it was all a dream, as if it didn’t make sense. 

Castiel watched as she stood behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s time to go now.” 

Sam shook his head then. There was a light in his eyes, a silent stubbornness. Both him and Dean are just as much fighters, Sam has always just been more quiet about it. “No. I need to go back, I need to help my brother.” 

His soul didn’t die, though his body has turned into nothing more than a carcass for the fires. For the salt and the flame. 

When Dean died it was different though. The Hellhounds ripped into his chest, and he screamed, and fought as much as he could, but Castiel watched his eyes as it happened. He watched the light go out before the last tear finally did him in. 

He didn’t even fight, didn’t say anything as he was dragged down into Hell. 

His soul died then. 

See, there’s a difference. 

Sam was worse than when he had last seen him, and Castiel felt another wave of guilt over him. Such a human emotion, to feel responsible for something. Guilty. Angels don’t feel this way.

Then again, angels don’t make mistakes like that. Not the good ones, anyways, they just make different types of mistakes, and before he met the Winchesters he had considered himself one of the good ones. 

Castiel remembers Sam when he left. Well, that was a lie: Sam had made it a point not to interact with Castiel once the truth came out. But he remembers everything that happened before. Everything that happened before he said the one word that ended it all, everything before the feeling of darkness breaking into him, Dean’s voice breaking through in bits and pieces as the shadows departed. 

Mary had just been brought back, he remembers. They were trying to solve that mystery, and everything was colder, and the voice in his head that he couldn’t quite name was showing him--not telling him,  _ showing  _ him, in all the worst ways, in all the visions of Sam and Dean’s dead bodies and the destroyed lands and so many dead angels, and so many dead people--how everything would fall apart if he didn’t say “yes.”

Before he met the Winchesters he was one of the good ones, and he followed orders. And then he left and he realized that he wasn’t anything but a mindless soldier causing destruction. Angels do make mistakes: they follow their orders. He vowed never to do that again, never to listen like that again, never to make that mistake again. 

That’s the things about humans though: they never keep their promises, and Castiel was nothing if not human-like. 

He thinks he figured out immediately after saying yes what a mistake it was, but after that everything is a blur of darkness and light, and his brother’s voice echoing in his ear. “Thanks for the ride, Little Brother.”

He didn’t know what had happened until he woke up in Dean’s arms. What did he say then? Did he say that Lucifer was out? Did he say he was sorry? Perhaps he didn’t say anything at all as he felt the cold floor, so much colder now than before.

The worst part about it is that he didn’t even think about Sam when he sat up. In fact, he seemed to forget everything, everything but the feel of Dean’s hands and the floor and his brother’s voice. He didn’t think of anything but how tired he was. 

And then he saw Sam, and his face, and the way his eyes widened when he looked at him as if he  _ knew-- _ no, of course he knew. How would he not know? And it wasn’t like all the other times Castiel had seen Sam. It wasn’t like watching him jump in the cage, it wasn’t like watching him drink demon blood, or open the gates of Hell. It was different this time. 

It was like watching him die. His soul die. 

There was a flash of horror as his eyes widened. Castiel heard his breathing quicken, his heartbeat start beating faster and faster--it was so strange the things he could hear as an angel, the things he experienced. He tensed up, as if preparing to be hit. No--as if he was preparing for the worst nightmare he could imagine, as if the bunker was about to collapse down on him and he was going to suffocate under everything. 

But then it ended as fast as it came. He went slack, and the light went out of his eyes. 

And Castiel knew it then, and he knows it now, whether or not he wants to believe it, that he watched Sam die. 

He watched again now as Sam walked away from the stairs and down the hallway, his back turned, his footsteps so quiet. Was there a bloodstain on the back of his shirt? No--it was probably just his imagination. 

\---

Dean’s been around a long time, seen a lot, and he remembers all of it. He wants to forget, but he doesn’t. He can’t. 

He’s been around a long time. He remembers watching his brother shoot that man--what was his name? Josh? Jake? He remembers wondering, then and there, if that was his brother-- _ really  _ his brother. After an entire year of convincing him he wasn’t a monster, that Yellow-Eyes plans wouldn’t stop them, that he was still Sam, he realized that maybe the person he needed to convince was himself as he watched the blood splatter from the ground to his face and his eyes burned. 

_ “How sure are you that that thing over there is one-hundred percent pure Sam?” _

How sure was he? 

He sat by the table remembering what had just happened, watching his brother look at their friend with a blank look on his face, a terrifying, blank look. His pale face motionless as Cas tried to speak, his eyes almost red as he spoke and left. 

How sure was he? 

“Come on, let’s go on a drive. You’ve been gone a while.” Castiel’s protests didn’t register with him as he walked to the Impala. 

The Impala was always the same. The Impala didn’t change. The same legos sat in the heater and the same initials were scratched into the floor and the same army men were wedged in the seats and it was always the same. 

Castiel was by his side, and Castiel doesn’t change. He’s the same angel he always is, adorably awkward and looking so lost as he sat in the shotgun seat where Sam would usually sit. 

It’s fine. He doubts Sam even noticed they left. 

“So you’ve missed a lot,” he started, glancing over to see Cas looking out the window with an unreadable expression. 

Well--unreadable for most people. Dean knew he was thinking about Sam, what he said.  _ “It’s fine.”  _ It wasn’t. At least not for Dean as he watched his brother with shaking hands and pale skin and bags under his eyes and an empty look stare at his friend, saying those words. 

That wasn’t Sam saying those words, was it? His voice was the same, and yet it was quiet. Quieter than before, than ever, and it was hoarse, as if he could barely speak at all, and he looked like someone else. It was someone else, right? 

There was a moment of silence with Castiel. “Sam doesn’t forgive me, does he?” he finally said, and his voice was small. 

_ “It’s fine.” _

Dean didn’t reply for a moment. “I don’t know.” That was a lie. His foot was on the gas pedal, and the world was blurring around them. “I don’t know anything about him nowadays.” That was the truth. 

Castiel was silent again. That seemed to be what he wanted, but it was the last thing Dean did. The last thing he needed was more silence, more of this other Sam that was living in the bunker. “What happened?” the angel asked. His voice was cracking on the words. Dean knew the implication behind them, what he was really asking:  _ “how is Sam?”  _ And he was only asking that so he would know how much to blame himself for everything. 

Was it all Castiel’s fault? Castiel certainly thought so. Did Sam? He said he didn’t think so, but Dean didn’t know much about what Sam was thinking anymore. 

“Well, we found a lead.” That seemed to be the easiest thing to say: the one thing that happened that wouldn’t answer Castiel’s question. 

“As you said. What is it?” 

Dean went into detail. About Rachel, about what she said, the warehouse (though he conveniently skipped over the part where Sam threatened her), and about the lead: the thing powerful from Heaven, and Hell, and someone that’s seen both. 

After he finished he looked to the passenger seat. “Does that mean anything to you?”

Castiel was looking forward, obviously lost in thought. “It doesn’t,” he finally said. “But perhaps this demon knows what Lucifer is planning. 

  
  


“Sorry I left.” 

“You had to go over to Heaven. I get it.” The trees and countryside flew by. 

Castiel sighed. “I guess.” He turned around to look at Dean. “Tell me what I missed.” It was a formal question.

Dean took another moment to look at Castiel- _ -really _ look at him, like he did with his brother. He looked tired, with bags under his eyes and the ghost of a beard starting to appear on his chin, but he was Cas. It wasn’t like his brother, where there was another person sitting in the shotgun, where he thought he had been possessed. This was Castiel. His Castiel, trenchcoat and all. To a T. 

“Well, a demon gave us a lead.” He decided to start with that. That was the easy part. 

“Gave you?” 

Dean shrugged with a small smile on his face. “More or less. She said that we had to find something really powerful from Heaven and Hell, and then someone who’s seen both.” He turned to face him, sitting in shotgun. “That mean anything to you?”

Castiel was silent for a moment, a hand on his chin. “That is…” Castiel searched for a word, looking out the window. “Not a typical prophecy,” he finally finished. “How did she know about it?” 

“She said it was just a rumor in Hell, that if we put those three things together we’d be able to stop Lucifer once and for all. She only told us as a taunt.” 

_ “You  _ will  _ tell me.” _

Dean tensed up, his hands tightening on the wheel. He felt an urge, an inexplicable urge from all the years of hiding and lying, to not say anything. To keep quiet. 

No, if he was being honest, which he rarely is, it wasn’t that he was so used to lying. It’s that he didn’t want to think about that time in the warehouse. Didn’t want to believe it happened, didn’t want to remember it. 

But that’s the thing about Dean, he always remembers. He doesn’t want to, but he always does. 

He pulled over, and Castiel looked over at him, worry lining his face. “Dean?”

Memories. Dean can’t forget, no matter how hard he tries, and he does. He’ll distract himself, but they always come to him, they always seek him out. Like Hellhounds, he supposes. They always find him, and they trap him like chains, and he can never be free, he’ll never be free. 

Right now the memories going through his mind were of Sam. Not just Sam recently, walking around like a ghost, silently. The way his eyes seemed to become red, and how they seemed to always flicker with fear and secrets that he refused to say. The way he stood up past a demon, and collapsed soon after. 

No, he wasn’t just thinking about that. He was thinking about Sam, fear in his eyes, not sleeping because he heard voices that weren’t there. He was thinking about Sam without a soul who killed without remorse and looked with blank, dark eyes. He was thinking about Sam when he was possessed by Lucifer, Sam drinking demon blood, Sam watching Jess burn on the ceiling. 

Sam shooting Jake, blood in his eyes. 

Dean’s been around a long time, and he’s seen his brother turn into so many different things.

“Something is wrong. With Sam.” 

It must have been the way that Dean said it that made Castiel look up, because of course something was wrong with Sam, of course something was wrong because Lucifer was back. But it was more than that, wasn’t it. Castiel’s blue eyes seemed to glow in the Impala. 

“What do you mean?” Any other person would have dismissed it, would have said “of course something is wrong,” but Castiel didn’t. He was different like that. Always has been. 

Dean felt like there was a pit in his stomach that he couldn’t shake, that he couldn’t stop. He thought again of Sam’s dead eyes, his pale skin. 

_ “You  _ will  _ tell me.” _

“He’s… he hasn’t gotten better, since you left.” Castiel frowned at that. “He’s…” _ dying in front of my eyes _ . “Changing, but not like before, it’s different this time, and it’s not just that. There’s something else going on, I know it.” The last words he said rose in volume, became more desperate, cracking at the end, even though he tried to stop it. 

“Dean,” Castiel replied, hand close to his on the gear shift. “What happened?”

_ He’s a demon now. He’s been possessed by Lucifer again. He’s soulless. He’s drinking demon blood.  _

_ He’s not Sam.  _

Was he? 

_ “How sure are you that that thing over there is one-hundred percent pure Sam?” _

“Dean?” Castiel’s eyes were wide, imploring. Of course they were, this was Cas, one-hundred percent pure Castiel.

Dean’s hand tightened even more on the wheel. His knuckles were white, his fingers were numb. “Listen, when we were in the warehouse, for a moment Sam wasn’t… he wasn’t  _ Sam _ .” Was that the right thing to say? No--it was Castiel. Of course it was. Because Castiel would know what to do. 

“What do you mean?” Castiel’s words were steady, like a rock. Was Castiel ever like a rock before? Dean doesn’t think so, but things change. Sometimes.

Dean took a deep breath. “He…” He recalled his brother staggering to his feet, his eyes wide, hands shaking. “He broke from a demon’s hold.”

Castiel stiffened at that--he wasn’t looking at him, but he could tell. “Like last time?” His voice was level, but there was a shake at the end he couldn’t hide, at least not from Dean. 

“Well I wasn’t alive for the last time, but yes. Like last time.” He looked up from his hands, finally, over at Castiel, who was staring forward. Dean wasn’t there for that--it was before they even knew Castiel existed. He was on his way to Hell when they happened. 

The radio had turned off between then and now. When did that happen? When did the car suddenly get filled with silence? Did it happen all at once or did it fade away gradually, and he just didn’t realize it was quiet until it was over and there was nothing left he could do? 

Silence filled the car again. Castiel moved his hand away from Dean’s, and the comforting warmth left with it. He looked over, and Castiel was staring straight ahead, his hands clenched in his lap, shaking. 

“Cas?” He didn’t like how his voice shook, how it wavered dangerously.

“So it’s all happening again, then,” Castiel said, his voice shaking like his hands. “His demon blood?” 

Dean recalled the time Sam walked into that restaurant, blood smeared on his chin, his eyes nearly black. He told himself the terror he felt was for his brother, back then. He was terrified of him too, though. Him and his black eyes.

The scene of the warehouse flashed through his mind again, how Sam’s eyes gleamed red. 

“I don’t think so,” Dean replied. “I don’t know what this is but it--it feels new.” 

Castiel bit his lip, looking off in the distance. His hands were still shaking. “Then,” he replied, taking a deep breath. “Then we have to assume Lucifer is doing something to him.”

Lucifer. _ “Whatever you do, you will always end up here. No matter what choices you make, no matter what details you alter, we will always end up here.”  _

Was he there now? 

“Do you think he could?” Dean’s voice was shaking. Looks like him and Castiel had that in common. 

Castiel’s eyes were closed, and Dean had the suspicion that he was remembering something else. A different time. “I don’t know. Maybe. This could be his plan, but if it is, I haven’t noticed anything.” 

Dean remembered the time Castiel looked through Sam, when he was soulless. He screamed so loudly back then. “Could you look through his soul?”

Castiel shook his head. “I don't need to. I see his soul, it looks as it usually does.” He winced almost imperceptibly as he said that. What was it Rachel had said about Sam’s soul?  _ “I can see his soul, Dean? You want to know what it looks like? Do you remember what it looked like when you had just finished ripping someone apart? Do you remember sewing them back together again?”  _

“So what do we do?” Dean asked. There was a lot more asked in that question, though:  _ please tell me what’s going on, tell me that this can be fixed, tell me that Sam can be brought back, tell me you won’t leave again.  _

Castiel took a deep breath, then turned over to Dean. His blue eyes were darker than normal, wide. “I don’t know,” he said, and there was nothing worse he could have said in that moment. “But until we…” he broke off, clearing his throat. “It has to be something related to Lucifer, right? We’ll have to start there.” 

“Castiel we don’t have that kind of time.” Dean’s voice was breaking on his words, his desperation shining through the cracks. 

Castiel looked quickly over at him, at his voice. His blue eyes were shining in the light of the car. “Dean…” his voice broke too. “Dean, what if some of this is just  _ Sam _ ?” 

“That’s impossible,” Dean replied quickly, with confidence, but he shouldn’t have.

_ “How sure are you that that thing over there is one-hundred percent pure Sam?” _

Castiel took another deep breath, a shuddering, deep breath. “Listen, Dean, when I went into the cage, what I saw there…” Something flashed behind Cas’ eyes. “I can’t forget it, even now. And we don’t know how long Sam was down there.”

Dean remembered the tabs pulled up on his computer.  _ “PTSD. Effects of Torture. Flashbacks.” _

“But that doesn’t explain the warehouse--”

“I know it doesn’t,” Castiel interrupted. “But think about it: if Sam has demon blood, and demons are created by torture…”  _ Then his demon blood could be back.  _ He didn’t say it, but the both of them heard it.

Dean’s throat was tight. “But his demon powers… he’s not drinking it anymore. They left after Yellow Eyes went away.” 

“And Lucifer used to be locked in his cage,” Castiel replied, his voice laced with bitterness. His voice was echoing in Dean’s ear.  _ “Dean, he’s  _ out _.”  _

Dean didn’t know how to reply. Everything Castiel was saying was right, he knew. He was making sense of everything, just like he wished he would when he prayed and slept and every other moment, but the sense was nothing but chaos. Nothing but things that Dean couldn’t-- _ wouldn’t _ \--comprehend. 

He looked over at Castiel, who looked like he was far away. Was he staring at the horizon or was he staring as something else? A different time when he took Dean up from Hell? When he went into the cage and saw Sam--his  _ brother-- _ being tortured? Maybe he was thinking of a simpler time before he even knew Dean Winchester existed, but he hoped not. “The best thing we can do for Sam now is to find Lucifer, and put him back. Again,” he added at the end, wincing slightly. 

_ “I… we need to find Lucifer.” _

Dean looked at Castiel for a moment, and then back, both his hands clenched on the wheel. 

“You’re right,” he finally said, shifting the car into drive. 

You see, the thing about Dean is that he’s been around for a long time. He’s seen a lot, and he never forgets. 

Which means he hates the truth just as much as Sam but in a different way. 

\---

Castiel remembers what he saw when he first went into the cage, but he doesn’t like to. 

Lucifer and Michael had been fighting at the time over something, or maybe someone. That didn’t strike Cas as odd. In fact, it seemed par for the course, as far as he was concerned. 

No--that isn’t what he remembers. What he remembers is Sam. 

He was curled up in the corner, and Castiel saw blood all around him, more than he thought was possible. It was so dark, it barely looked crimson. No--it looked black. Like ink, pure darkness. There were vibrations, rattling through the puddle. He was shaking, trembling like a leaf in the wind. He had covered his face with his hands. 

When he approached him, as quietly as he could, he moved Sam’s hands so he could see his eyes--only, he no longer had any. There were bloody, gaping holes where they once were. Castiel learned then more and more what it was like to be a human. To feel your heart start trembling with pain and fear. 

“Lucifer?” Sam whispered, still shaking violently. His voice cracked with fear, and Castiel felt another pang on his heart. 

“No, no, Sam.” Cas spoke softly, trying to mask his horror. He wrapped his fingers around Sam’s. “It’s me, Castiel.”

His breaths were cold and hard on Cas’ hands. “That’s not possible.”

Castiel gripped Sam’s shoulder. “Yes. It is. I’m taking you home.”

He remembers that. He also remembers a feeling of something tearing apart when he unfurled his wings and flew Sam from the cage. Only later did he realize that was his soul, tearing from his body. 

Now he was sitting in the Impala, one Winchester driving by his side and the other miles and miles away, thinking. About a lot of things. About how Lucifer’s eyes glow red, and how the bars on his cage are so cold, even to an angel. About how Dean’s hands were calloused and reassuring as they held his, and how his eyes are green, like the trees, and grass. Not black like darkness, or red like blood. Green. 

He thought about how he could never really tell exactly what Sam’s eye color was. Sometimes it’s brown, sometimes it’s golden. One time they turned black. Sometimes he has no eyes at all. 

Castiel remembers a lot of things. He remembers when he decided he was going to leave for heaven, and looked into Sam’s room, and his eyes looked different. Like they weren’t his. Sam didn’t look up from the book, at the time. The days had passed, and with each one Sam had talked less and less, and now he sat there, in the room, unmoving, and Castiel didn’t recognize his eyes. 

He was different. Sam was never like this before then. Or maybe he was, and Cas never noticed.  _ “It’s fine.”  _ Those were the words Castiel wanted to hear, so why did they hurt so much when he spoke them?

That’s another thing Castiel knows about being human: they never truly want what they think they do. 

There’s something so horrible about being forgiven. It’s like getting the one thing you always wanted, and realizing it’s something you didn’t want at all. It’s like craving pain and experiencing euphoria. It’s numb, and it’s just so painful. 

Because he deserves so much worse. Truth is he wants the pain, because then forgiveness can feel like redemption instead of an undeserved indulgence. 

But he’s been forgiven. No pain, no strife, no suffering. Just more of the same. 

_ “You got what you asked for, Dean.” _

Castiel closed his eyes and embraced the darkness, listening to the rumble of the car as it drove on.

\---

Sometimes to Dean, it feels like his entire life is putting out fires. And all of it to save his brother. 

First he had to save his brother from an actual fire. He carried him in his small, four-year-old arms and took his brother outside as fast as he could. Next, he saved him from Yellow Eyes, and his horrible plan. He didn’t do so well at that one, so then he saved Sam from death. Then he had to save Sam from Ruby, and he failed again. Next Lucifer, and then he failed again. 

He had to save Sam from his memories in Hell, and he failed. That was the biggest failure of them all. That was the one that mattered. Because Sam isn’t sitting in his room with the bright lights on not sleeping because of goddamn Yellow Eyes or Demon Blood, he’s doing it because of Lucifer. 

Dean stays up at night, and he wonders what his life would be like if he hadn’t failed. If he had saved Sam. If he had forced him away from the gaping hole in Hell. He knows in his mind that the world would have died along with them, but his heart wondered if maybe that was better. Maybe it was less painful. 

He wonders what he would do, if it all happened again, and he knew what would come of Sam’s sacrifice. Would he sit there and watch again, or would he stand up like he wanted to do the first time and pull him away. Let Lucifer take his mind again. 

It really comes down to a question of whether he would be strong or weak. Dean knew he would be weak. 

The sun was beginning to set on the horizon, and Castiel and him had been driving in silence for longer than he could keep track of. Well, it was never completely silent. They always talked about something, there was always music playing in the background, the sound of the wheels going on and on around him. But they hadn’t talked about Sam in that time. Or Lucifer, or heaven, or Hell, or anything in between. 

So no, it was never completely silent. 

Dean turned around and started to head back to the bunker, the trees and signs blurring past him as he let his foot hit the pedal. 

His life is putting out fires, everywhere, with every town he goes to and saves, with every demon he kills and every creature he hunts. With every time his brother is about to leave him, he always pulls him back. 

So now he heads back to the bunker. Can he stand failing again? 

Actually, there’s a bigger question: can he succeed this time? 

Fires raged around him in the unilluminated car. Everything is burning around him, and he knows that. 

But he can’t put it out, no matter how much he thinks he can. 

\---

Sam has a tendency to avoid problems until they become too big to ignore. That’s what he did with his visions of Lucifer when he first got his memories, that’s what he did with the memories from the cage, and that’s what he did with Other Sam. He ignored them until he couldn’t sleep and the walls started to shift. He kept the lights in the car on until the shadows started to grow. He didn’t talk to it until he took its hand. 

He knows the situation with Castiel is going to become a problem. It sounds like a lie--because doesn’t everything?--but he didn’t want to ignore the problems. He just had bigger issues. It’s like fighting one demon while another is approaching. You’re not going to stop fighting one just so you can fight the other. 

For kicks, though, he thought about it. He thought long and hard. About how Castiel looked when he came back the first time, covered in blood. About the horror in his eyes. About the quiet pain he felt around their house before he left. About how confused and lost he seemed in the bunker, just hours before. 

What Sam said, just earlier that day in the kitchen, wasn’t a lie. He understood Castiel, more than anyone else could. Who else destroyed the world by releasing an archangel, thinking they were doing the right thing? 

But he couldn’t think about much besides how utterly afraid he was, all of the time. All consuming. He suffered the first time when it was his fault. And now he’s going to suffer the second time when it wasn’t. 

So what is the solution to the problem with Castiel? It really boiled down to one question, for Sam: does he hate Castiel? 

The answer changes with the minute, the second. One second Sam will be consumed by fear, by total terror, at everything that can happen now that Lucifer is free, and his fists clench and he’s filled with a black, horrible hatred for Castiel. For everyone. Another second he’ll be looking at the bright lights and he’ll start remembering who he was before. It just all depends on what he remembers. 

He’ll be sitting in the forest, just outside of the bunker, and it will be dark, and he’ll be talking to the Sam with blood-red eyes, and he’ll say “what does it matter?” 

_ “What does it matter, Sammy? You’re going to be down here forever.” _

Sometimes Sam can remember. Sometimes he can’t. And how he feels depends entirely on it. 

Right now he remembers nothing. And that’s okay. That’s just how it is. He’s just in his head, because for Sam, his head is a place, not just a metaphor. And in there right now everything is dark, and Castiel is a problem, but he ignores him as the darkness closes in.

\---

As an angel, Castiel automatically knew all languages. Enochian was his home tongue, and he spoke english when he was with the Winchesters. He could hear any language and decipher what they were saying, no matter the dialect, or complexities. He would read, write, translate. That was one of the things he was programmed for, and so he could. 

But as he was learning more and more as time went on, saying things and understanding them were different. 

Sam’s words were still echoing in his head, and so were Dean’s. His mind seemed consumed by them.  _ “It’s fine.” “Sam… he stood up, from the hold and he… changed.” _

Castiel sat in the Impala, the light fading as the world shifted to night, as he tried to understand. He tried to understand what he had done, what he had ruined, what had happened after he ran away to Heaven. 

Ran away. It’s a harsh thing to say, but Castiel is trying to be more truthful, now that he had ruined so much, destroyed so much. Why not? He might as well, it’s the least he can do: at least know what he did. 

Here is the truth as Castiel knows it: he brought back Lucifer, he hurt Sam, Sam is changing into something else, he ran away to Heaven, and Dean was sitting next to him in the driver's seat. 

The last fact was comforting, like Dean was keeping him grounded in reality as they drove on through the empty road. It’s something that kept him grounded as he let himself remember everything, as he always does. Remember what had happened--no, what he had done. 

How much he had broken. 

Castiel remembers when he took away Sam’s visions, back when Leviathans were their biggest issue and he barely remembered who he was. Strange, breaking things seemed to be a trend for him, even back then. It nearly broke him when he tapped Sam’s forehead, finding all his pain and trying to take it for himself. It felt like his mind was sitting in his hands as it shattered apart, crackling and snapping as sharp shards pierced his hands and sharper blood poured from his fingers. It felt like everything and nothing at all, and all he remembered thinking before his mind shattered completely was “how did Sam survive this?” 

He still doesn’t know the answer to that question, to this day. He still doesn’t know how Sam survived the hallucinations that looked so incredibly real, the noises, the lights, the feeling of living like you were looking at the world through a broken mirror rather than a window. He was completely broken after taking the pain from him, but Sam wasn’t broken. 

Or maybe he was. Castiel can never tell with him. He’s so different from his brother: Dean wears his heart on his sleeve like a talisman, and he smiles when he’s happy and frowns when he’s not, and he goes on long drives when he needs to think and hunts when he feels helpless and stands by his brother no matter what, because if there’s one thing Cas learned after watching Dean Winchester all these years it’s that he refuses to leave his brother. 

But Sam is different. He learned this after he first met him and thought he was unstable, erratic. The Boy with Demon Blood. That’s what he had been told Sam Winchester was, what he believed when he was a soldier, a good one. And he was back then: unstable and erratic. But you would never know it from watching him, talking to him. Sam always seemed untouchable by these things, unless around people he truly trusts. 

“That boy has a good poker face,” Bobby said one time after Sam left the room. What happened that day? It was after Sam told Bobby and Castiel his plan to jump into the cage. His face was truly emotionless as he said it, and Castiel asked Bobby what it was, this “poker face,” and after being made fun of, just a little bit, for his ignorance, he was answered. “It means that someone doesn’t let other people know what they’re thinking, or how they’re feeling.”

Bobby was always wise: Sam does have a good poker face. Especially now, with his pale face and silent walk and dark eyes. Looking at him was looking at a landscape that seems right, but everything is just a little too dark, and the colors are just a little off, and nothing quite made sense. He looked like he did when he was at his worst, his most afraid, on the brink of death, but he stood straight, and his eyes were blank and strong, and his words were firm.  _ “It’s fine.” _ The words play again and again in Cas’ mind as he tried to understand them, comprehend them somehow. To find out what they mean, what Sam was really thinking when he said them quietly by the stairs. 

It never occurred to him, though it certainly should have, that Sam was simply doing what he always does: keeping up his poker face.

And it never even crossed his mind that maybe Castiel and Dean weren’t the ones he was trying to fool. 

\---

There’s always a little bit of darkness isn’t there?

Sam and Dean and Cas know this better than anyone. In every normal, small town there’s always a secret. In every single person there’s always a little bit of a break, isn’t there? A bit of corruption, danger. Even in Heaven there’s dark angels. 

There’s always a little bit of darkness. Dean knows what he becomes when he’s trying to save his brother. Castiel knows what he is, and all the pain he’s brought to the world. 

Darkness follows them, follows their trail of shadows they’re bound to leave whenever they go. Right now there’s a small evil lurking after them. They’re following the Impala. No, it’s not Lucifer (though Dean would rather it be), it’s not even someone important. But what they know is important. And what they plan on doing even more so. 

But the most important thing is how they are going to die. When they die, Dean’s hands will shake with fear, and Castiel’s eyes will widen with shock and terror. Isn’t that interesting? Dean and Castiel being afraid? They’ve seen a lot in their long lives, and they remember all of it. It would be strange for them to be totally consumed by fear. And yet they will be, completely and totally. Interesting? Yes, but not as interesting as the reason why. 

That’s the thing about a little darkness being with everyone: that applies for Sam too. 

The difference for him is that the darkness is better than the light. 

Quite the grand prize, no? 

\---

Sam was tired of everything always falling apart. Every minute he’s alive he’s walking on eggshells everywhere: around his brother, around Castiel, around himself, the Sam with red eyes. 

He walks on eggshells in his own mind. He forces himself to look into lights so he doesn’t remember what happened in the cage. Because he can’t remember. Because remembering makes everything worse. Because when the shadows start to grow out of the corners of his eyes he knows he won't be able to take it anymore.

He’s just tired. All of the time. He can never sleep, he can never die, and he can never remember. He can’t break a silence, no matter how hard he tries. He can’t stop Other Sam from appearing in his vision, no matter how many times he’s begged. He can’t remember. 

He can’t remember. 

God--he can’t remember anything. He still doesn’t know what happened the first time he met Castiel. He tries to recall what he felt when he jumped into the pit and he comes up blank. 

Maybe he needs to remember. Maybe that would make him human again, because--let’s be honest, just for this small moment, in this secluded space, where he can forget about this glimpse of truth later--he is not human. Not right now. Was he ever? It’s debatable, he supposes. 

Maybe if he could just remember he would recall what it was like first meeting Castiel. Was he inside when it happened? There was someone else in the room too. Dean? Yes him, but also someone else. Sam can’t quite place it. Maybe if he could just remember he’d recall his name and face (was it a “he”?) but he can’t.

Well, that’s a lie. Aren’t we being truthful, in this small moment in a secluded space? Sam can remember, but the trick is he doesn’t want to. It’s like how he shuns the Other Sam, and dances away from sleep, and looks away from dark corners: all these little things make it all so much easier. Why would Sam bother to remember it when he can sit here, emotionless, in the woods, with Cas and Dean on a long drive away from him. 

“Emotionless.” It’s such a negative word, but Sam doesn’t think it’s bad at all. What’s wrong with not feeling emotions? What’s wrong with sitting silently as the world passes by? It’s certainly better than the alternatives. It’s better than sitting in his own head with darkness around him, fire in his eyes and his mind and his stomach and his heart. Hate. All encompassing, fiery hate. The kind of hate that makes him want to rip the world apart to watch it tear and destroy that Impala, rim by rim, in a way that finally makes it so Dean can never fix it again. 

No, emotionless is better. 

It’s cold, as Sam sits in the forest though. He has the distinct feeling that if he could just remember the time he met Castiel, he wouldn’t be cold anymore, or on fire. He’d be comfortably warm, like he was when he met him. Yes, it must have been inside, he remembers being comfortable. 

But there’s really not a point for Sam. Why bother to remember that when he’d remember everything else too? Memories are a package deal. Why did he decide to get his when he was stuck in his own mind, his soul fractured? 

That’s a dumb question, it must have been for Dean. Only Dean would make him act so stupidly. 

His brother and him are very different. Sometimes. 

Sometimes they’re really not at all. 

That’s the worst part of it. 

Sam has his back against the tree. It’s cold. Why is it so cold? Who knows, it just is. That’s just how it is. Sam doesn’t need to remember that to accept it. 

Yes, emotionless is certainly better. 

\---

The Impala didn’t pull into the bunker, like Castiel thought it would. Dean didn’t even slow down the car as they passed their home, and it flew by so fast that Cas didn’t recognize it at first. 

“Dean?” 

Dean swallowed, his hands clenched on the wheel. “I don’t want to go back yet.”

Castiel didn’t press it any further. In fact, when he heard those words he felt a small release in his chest, like someone had lifted a rock that was sitting on his ribcage, suffocating him. Dean had a tendency to do that: to say just the right words, to do just the right thing. That was Dean. Dean was like a home, he supposed. Not a home like the bunker, but a home like the Impala.

The Impala was safe. Even when it wasn’t it wasn’t. It was a place where it seemed like everything stayed the same and nothing changed from what you remembered and there was Dean in the driver's seat and a road and such simplicity. Home. He slept for the first time in the backseat, he has been a servant of Heaven and a fallen angel and a human and something in between the three all in this car. But the car stays the same. 

The bunker wasn’t like that: the bunker was a different type of home. The type of home that houses the truth. The type of home that has dark corners and doesn’t let you turn away from them into the light. The type of home that felt like a sentence to Castiel, one that he deserved. People changed in different ways in the bunker, and the bunker seemed to shift with it, warping to it. When Sam grew more and more silent, the rooms stopped their comforting echo, the corners grew more dark. The bunker changes.

And it’s all his fault. He knows it. Dean knows it, even though he doesn’t want to say it. That’s the thing about Dean: family always comes first. He doesn’t want to live without his family. Castiel didn’t understand it until he became a Winchester himself, but now he does. 

Castiel can’t understand a lot of things, but he can understand that. 

Something he can’t understand is how to get the pit out of his stomach. He knew it was fear, fear of what he did to Sam that was keeping him from the bunker. It was fear keeping Dean from the bunker too, he could tell in the curve of his frown and the wrinkle in his eye, but a different fear. 

Castiel reckoned that Dean was afraid of losing his brother. Castiel was afraid of being the one who lost him. 

Dean stopped the car. They were in the middle of the road, but it didn’t matter: it was barely used anyways. The stars were coming out. 

The stars. Dean couldn’t see all of them, because he was so human, but Castiel could. The galaxies, the swirling lights of the universe gleaming above him. It was such a human thing to look at the stars, and to wish, and to hurt. It was all so human of him. 

But he hurt right now. He hurt as he watched them, as he knew that Dean was watching them too. The stars. The world. Everything. 

There was so much darkness surrounding them. Castiel could feel it, the tendrils of Hell wrapping around them, suffocating them, all the while they can’t move around it. 

Lucifer is coming, and it's all his fault, and he doesn’t even know how to start solving it, because they don’t know Lucifer’s plan, or where he is, or what he’s doing, but the worst part isn’t even that: it’s Sam, because it’s always been Sam, hasn’t it? Ever since the apocalypse began it was Sam, the erratic one. The dangerous one, and he  _ is  _ dangerous, but not in the ways he was led to believe. It wasn’t because Sam was destined for Hell, for evil. In fact, it had little to do with his destiny at all. 

See, there’s different types of danger. There’s the danger of someone who cares, and that’s Dean. That’s Dean trying to save his family, trying to keep it all together. There’s the danger of hubris, and that’s Castiel, breaking apart the entire world because he believes he knows what's best. 

Then there’s the danger of someone breaking. That’s Sam’s danger, always has been. It was his danger when he finally drank the demon blood. It was his danger when his eyes turned black. 

Sam is breaking apart right now, piece by piece, the outside of him, the carefully cultivated disguise of togetherness, of normalcy, is unraveling, and there’s something beneath it, and Castiel doesn’t know what it is, but his instincts, the ones that Dean taught him to have, tell him that it’s something sinister. Something powerful. 

It’s the same as Lucifer, in that way; they truly are similar to each other. Both are problems that Castiel caused, and both are problems that he can’t fix. At least, ones he thinks he can’t. 

Castiel recognizes the sinister. The feeling in his gut that something is coming, a darkness, a shadow. 

He feels it right now, actually. 

He looks down from the stars, and sees a man standing in front of the Impala. 

\---

Dean is well trained. People used to call him a little soldier when he was younger, a little fighter for his dad, a dog. He bristled when he heard it. “I’m more than that” he would tell himself when he sat alone at night, looking at the ceiling long after Sam had fallen asleep because he couldn’t get the image of what he saw out of his head. “I’m more than that.” 

But, as he realized as time went on, there’s really nothing wrong with being a soldier, if it’s for the right thing. The coolness of battle, the small noticings that save his life, the saving his family, what was so wrong with that? 

Dean immediately grabbed the demon blade he always kept tucked in arms’ reach. Castiel didn’t have his angel blade, he could tell by the way his sleeve floated like wings rather than sinking into the seat, but it would be alright. The demon blade would work. 

How did he know it was a demon? Was it the way he stood? The posture in front of the car? Maybe there was a flash of black in his eyes. It didn’t matter: it must have been small noticings. After all, Dean is a good soldier. 

The Impala’s door closed with a bang behind him, a loud one that echoed through the forest, down the road. Castiel’s was quieter. 

What was it about demons choosing the most inconspicuous humans? Perhaps it was ironic to them, funny to have such a powerful force trapped inside of a small, weak body. The boy couldn’t have been older than twenty, thin and tall. If he were human Dean would think that he could be blown away by a strong breeze he was so small. Black hair and freckles dotted his face, innocently blending with flecks of blood. Who did he kill? 

He stood there, hands in his jean pockets, a smile on his face. It must have been the smile that tipped Dean off: it was empty, full of blades beneath it. It was like the crossroad demon, all those years ago, it was like Meg. 

“I was hoping Sam would be here,” he said as Castiel and Dean met at the front of the engine, a few yards away from him. His greeting seemed to fill the empty space of the road. 

Dean’s blood ran cold when he said his name. Was it an old habit, a protective instinct after years of hunting, or was it because of everything else? He can never tell. At least, that’s what he tells himself. In reality, he knows exactly which one of those this demon was here for. He feels it, in his small noticings, in his heart, which Castiel saw on his sleeve right now. “Oh did you? Well…” Dean shrugged, knife in hand. “Sorry to disappoint.”

The demon smiled wider, showing his teeth, which Dean could have sworn were sharp like knives. Cocky bastard. “Dean Winchester. I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.” 

“I wouldn’t exactly call this a ‘pleasure.’” 

“I would.” 

They stared at each other for a moment. There was silence. Dean hates silence. It seemed to fill the road, the tension of it rising like the wind howling around them. Why was the wind howling?

“Why are you here?” Castiel asked, his voice menacing, or at least meant to be.

The demon shrugged, looking behind himself down the road. “Waiting for Sam, I guess.” The road was whiter than before, the lights becoming more glaring. “He was supposed to be with y’all in the car,” he continued, looking back at Cas and Dean, standing at the hood of the car. “I guess no one suspected he was already this far gone.” Dean bristled at that, and he must have noticed. He smiled, winking, and then turned his eyes over to Castiel. “What did he say to you, after you did it?” 

Dean looked over at Cas, who’s expression had turned to stone. “What are you here for?” he asked again, his voice flat. 

“You know, if it were me,” the demon continued, as if he hadn’t heard anything. “I would have killed you for it.” His eyes flashed black, for a moment. “That’s what you deserve, probably. Did you hear Sam, when he was in the cage? Did you bother to look?” He took one look at Castiel’s pained face--he was no longer able to hide it--and gave a smirk. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You’re lucky he hasn’t already snapped.”

“Snapped?” Dean asked, and his voice felt far away to his own ears. It felt faint, like another version of Dean, his strained words and the fear in his throat, was speaking instead of him. He felt like he was somewhere else, watching this.

The demon raised his eyebrows. “Yeah. Snapped. You know, go the full way, say ‘yes.’” He looked at Dean and Cas, who had faces of confusion, before he gave out a laugh that didn’t sound like a real laugh. “Oh by Lucifer, you don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?” Dean asked, but he sounded millions of miles away, maybe because he did know what. 

The demon looked over at Dean, and his eyes looked black, but they weren’t. He took a step forward, another, and suddenly he was within arm’s reach. He heard Castiel stiffen beside him, fists ready, but Dean couldn’t. Dean was cold all over, and limp, and the blade in his hands was an extension of his wrist, a part of him. “Have you seriously never considered, Dean, that your brother might be acting different for a reason? That maybe he doesn’t have a choice?” He paced to the side, closer to Castiel, who tensed. “That maybe it’s his destiny to be the little ugly, evil, belly-to-the-ground supernatural piece of shit? Oh, you spend all your life fighting it, Dean,” he said, pacing back to him, watching his face turn more and more pained. Dean was watching too, from a distance. “But you know, don’t you?” Dean watched as the demon got closer, his face in full view now, his dark eyes, his sharp teeth. 

Knew what? No--he knew what. He knew what from when Sam stood up in the warehouse. He knew the second it happened. He knew from the tone of his voice, from Castiel’s words.  _ “What if it’s just Sam?” _ His brother was changing, his brother was--

“Your brother is a monster,” the demon stated, smiling knowingly, or maybe just smirking, Dean couldn’t tell. His voice dripped with venom, his eyes were black now. “And by the end of it, you’re going to wish I had killed you now instead.”

It was like he was watching himself, watching a stranger holding the demon blade from far away, and he couldn’t control himself, couldn’t stop what was happening. He was watching himself stand in the middle of cold flames, not even trying to put them out, and he watched himself lunge out, his blade flashing in his hands. 

The demon strung back, his own angel blade in hand now, shining against the light. He smiled, his eyes normal again, as he danced past Dean, ducking, bringing up his blade to clang against Dean’s, almost as if he was tapping it. As if it were a game. He landed against the Impala, back to it, and Castiel brought up his hand, a fist. Right as he brought it down the demon ducked out of the way, and as Castiel’s hand slammed into the hood a horrible clanging sound erupted from it, a huge dent created. 

Dean looked up at Cas, who’s look back was nothing more than pathetic as he stared down at Baby. “Dude,” is all Dean said, shaking his head. Then he attacked the demon again, and again he ducked out of the way right on time. 

“You know, it’s almost like we’re dancing,” the demon said, right as the blade came inches away from his nose. 

“Sorry,” Dean grunted in reply, adjusting the grip on his knife like his dad always taught him. “I’ll make sure to bring the gun next time.” 

The demon shrugged, ducking under Castiel’s fist. “I still think Sam would be more fun.” Dean brought his blade in an arc, and the demon ducked out of the way. He was still smiling--the bastard was  _ still smiling _ \--as he narrowly kept avoiding his blade. He was fast, faster than Dean remembered demons being. Was it his fatigue? 

Dean dove out of the way again, readying his blade. He was a soldier, after all. This was his job, his training. To fight even when he shouldn’t, and to notice the small happenings around him, but not truly listen to what it tells him. 

For example, around him are clues: the silence through the entire road, the white gravel and bright lights, even the demon’s own words:  _ “I was hoping Sam would be here.” “You’re lucky he hasn’t already snapped.” Your brother is a monster.” _ The small noticings that add up and up and up, until the truth is finally unraveled. 

Truth. He doesn’t like truth. 

Dean’s entire life is burning into ash. He was locked to the wall when it happened, unable to do anything but watch as he was stripped of everything he loved. It’s all burning apart, and Dean has no time. There’s just no time. 

No time. 

His brother is burning into ashes. The man who did this, who lit the fire, stands and laughs at it burns apart, so close but so out of reach and impossible to touch. 

It’s too late for him to put the fire out. 

But truth doesn’t matter to him. He knows that as he slashed the Demon Blade in a wide arc, just barely missing the demon in front of him. 

\---

Sometimes Sam can remember, and sometimes he can’t. 

For example, right now he sits in the dark forest, with his back against a tree, trying as hard as he can not to remember. Other Sam isn’t here right now, but not because he isn’t, but because he doesn’t need to be: Sam is alone. 

Usually he liked alone. Alone means no pain, no suffering, no memories. Alone means silence. But that’s not what it means right now, as he sits in the dark forest with his back against a tree trying as hard as he can not to remember. Not to remember anything. 

But just because he doesn’t want to remember doesn’t mean he won’t. The darkness, the cold. They come to him in flashes, and try as he might to push them down, why bother? It won’t work anyways. Because he’s Sam. Isn’t that the point?

He senses it, far away, in a way he just knows. His brother and Castiel were fighting something. A demon, he knew from the darkness, from the pain he could feel. The blood he saw even though he didn’t see it. Maybe this was just a sixth sense, a normal intuition. Dean got those sometimes. He was a fine-tuned soldier, and he got that sometimes.

But that probably wasn’t it. He knew that. He remembers everything, all the darkness and pain and blood and cold that he can never quite escape. Everything. He doesn’t want to but he does and he wants to scream but it feels like his tongue is made of blood and his throat is cut and all he can do is silently sit and wonder what happened the first time he met Castiel. 

The room was bright when he walked in, and it was a regular room. A motel room, in fact. He remembered the tan color of the walls, the silhouette of another angel, Uriel, against the window. Yes, that was his name: Uriel. An archangel. The curtains were pulled back. Castiel stood in front of him. 

“Hello, Sam.” The first thing Sam noticed was how deep his voice was. The next thing he noticed was the trenchcoat. It was strange how, in the moment Sam met the one thing he had always wanted to know, he only noticed the most ordinary things. 

“Oh my God,” Sam gasped, his eyes wide. “Er--uh--I didn’t mean to. Sorry.” He was so baffled, he barely noticed what he was saying. “It’s an honor.” Dean looked at him like he was insane when he put his hand out. “Really I’ve--I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Castiel didn’t take his hand, for a while. But when he finally took hold of it the first thing he noticed was how warm his palms were. “And I, you.” He looked him in the eyes. “Sam Winchester, The Boy with the Demon Blood.”

Sam felt himself contract, in that moment. Seize up. So many emotions in one meeting. Shock, euphoria, disappointment, anger, sadness. So many emotions. So many things he felt

And, bubbling beneath it all, hate. Fiery hate that threatened to push itself to the surface. One that made him wish he could rip the world apart to watch the screams happen and finally destroy that stupid goddamn car and everything that came along with it, everything that made him want to jump in that fucking hole in the first place.

So many emotions. One of them was stronger than the rest, though.

And there it was. The first time he met Castiel.

Castiel, pulling him from the pit. Castiel saving his life over and over again, Castiel saving everything. Castiel and his trenchcoat and his soft spoken words and his uncertainty and his anger and his helplessness.

Castiel. Who sat in front of him, blood coating his trenchcoat. “Dean, he’s  _ out _ .”

Castiel, who broke it all. Everything Sam had. The Castiel that said “I’m taking you home” as he ripped him apart, tearing him apart without even a second glance, because why would he care? Castiel, who broke everything he touched, including him. Because he was weak. Because he was a failure. Because he deserved to suffer, to die for what he did to Sam. Because Sam wanted him to die.

Because Sam hated him, with every fiber of his being, with everything he had.

Sam stood up from his sitting place. Nothing was cold this time as he walked to where he knew Castiel and Dean were, in the middle of town.

Other Sam wasn't here this time. This time, it was just Sam.

One-hundred percent pure Sam. 


	3. We made a deal at the Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay this took forever but I am back on track babey
> 
> I'd appreciate if y'all commented also lmao I want to see what y'all think about what's going on and also this took forever so a little validation will be like an expresso shot to my brain thank you love u all

Sam has a choice. 

Well, that’s not very informative, is it? Sam has always had a choice. Sam had the choice to spare Jake, he had the choice to save his brother, the choice to drink demon blood, the choice to say “yes.” 

“Yes.” That’s the word. The special, magic word. That’s what he said to Lucifer, a long time ago, though he doesn’t quite remember the day, the month, the year. It was cold, but that probably wasn’t a result of the weather. 

“Yes.” That’s what he said to Dean when he showed up in a Stanford apartment, in the darkness, the middle of the night, begging Sam to come with him, to follow a paper trail of monsters and blood. 

“Yes.” He hasn’t said this to Other Sam. It’s taken everything he has, but he hasn’t. He lets the darkness grow, and he lets the air freeze over, and he lets himself choke on the blood in his mind over and over and over and over and over again. It’s never ending, a cycle. This is Sam’s life now and, in a way, it always has been. 

Why doesn’t he say yes this time? Maybe he grew tired of that word. Maybe because he prefers silence. Maybe because he doesn’t like to talk to the things in his head. 

Or maybe he’s afraid. Terrified. Maybe the idea of the thing in his head coming outside is enough to make him shake, make him grip his hair wanting to scream. Maybe he’s so convinced that this Other Sam will rip his world apart that he’s willing to rip himself apart instead. 

But it’s time for Sam to learn that sometimes things break even when you do everything you can to keep it together. 

And, maybe, he doesn’t have much of a choice at all. 

\---

The first time Sam went on a hunt, he was eleven years old. 

Dean has begged his dad for weeks not to let him come, but Sam had begged otherwise. He didn’t quite know the horrors of it like Dean did, didn’t see the darkness in a different way yet. Of course he had seen monsters--they were Winchesters, there wasn’t really an option when it came to that--but he had never fought them.

Which is why Dean begged his father not to let him come. “He’ll get ripped apart.”

“He can handle it.” 

Sam looked wonderstruck when John handed him the shotgun. What were they hunting at the time? A werewolf? A kitsune? Maybe it was just a ghoul, or a wraith. Either way Sam held his shotgun with a mystified, dazed look in his eye. He had a small smile on his face.

Dean still remembers the way his heart stopped when he saw Sam, bleeding on the concrete floor of that house. 

He couldn’t feel anything as he ran to his brother’s side: nothing besides the way his feet seemed to slip on the bare, dusty ground. He was sure his heart wasn’t beating, that all the sound had left the room, everything. His brother was so heavy as he pulled him into his arms. Sam was never heavy before: he was always light, a small kid. But he was heavy now. He was so heavy now, and all Dean could think about was the unthinkable: what if he was dead? Oh God, what if he was dead. What would he do? He can’t be dead-- _ he can’t be dead _ . 

Dean stopped breathing as he put his fingers on Sam’s neck, pressing so hard, wanting to feel a pulse, a breath,  _ anything _ .

When Sam’s eyes opened it almost felt like the entire world had stopped pressing on his chest. 

He let a small smile grace his face--Sam was probably so scared, what good would it do to see Dean just as scared? To see his big brother sitting above him terrified?--before he brought his hands to Sam’s bloody clothes. He couldn’t see where the wounds began, where they stopped. “You’re going to be alright, Sam,” he said, hurried, rushed. His words barely more than anxious breathes. “You’re going to be just fine. Let me take a look at you.” 

But before he could do anything, Sam brought his hand up, weakly grasping Dean’s wrist. “Please don’t kill them,” he rasped. 

Dean was stunned. It didn’t even register for a moment what Sam could be talking about, that the Winchesters were hunting something. All that was in his mind was himself and his brother, on the floor, so heavy and small. “What?”

“It’s not their fault,” he breathed, his throat working, blood coating his skin--there was  _ so much blood _ . “Please, you can’t kill them. It’s not their fault.” 

He was talking about the monster, he realized then. Sam, his brother, who had just been attacked, was dying in his arms, was spending his words trying to convince him not to kill a monster. His eyes were wide, pleading for his brother to take mercy on the very thing that had ripped him apart.

Sam closed his eyes then, and Dean felt himself choke on fear. 

And that was the first time Sam went on a hunt. He was eleven years old. 

Dean still remembers that night like it was yesterday--he can’t forget it. It’s burned into his mind like a brand, and thinking back on it, Dean should have considered long ago that hunting was never for Sam, not because he was beyond it, or too good, but because it was always his nature to help, rather than hurt. 

Sam thinks it’s ironic, considering that he was created to hurt. Dean doesn’t. For him, that’s just always who Sam’s been, divine influence or not. 

Dean and Cas are fighting a demon right now, on that one deserted stretch of road, a demon blade slicing arcs, never quite hitting its target. A low-level demon like this shouldn’t be a problem for Dean--he is a soldier, after all--but it is right now. Everything about demons feels different to Dean, and he can’t quite put his finger on it: they move faster, they’re stronger than before. He blames it on his own distraction, but he should blame it on something far more nefarious. 

But he doesn’t. He remembers his brother, bloody on a concrete floor as he continues to let his blade flash in the dim light, just barely missing. 

\---

Thinking back on it, Sam’s known there was a demon nearby for a few hours now. 

It’s something that began to happen around the time he took Other Sam’s hand by the river: a sixth sense. Not in the way that Dean had it. A different way. A way that screamed of darkness and blood and all the things he can’t escape. 

He doesn’t question it, just like he doesn’t question a lot of things anymore. Like how he doesn’t question how he can survive months and years without sleeping, like how he doesn’t question how he resisted that demon’s power, like how he doesn’t question the way he senses angels and demons when they come nearby, like he can see them in the corner of his eye when he knows they aren’t there. 

Perhaps all his time in Hell attuned him to everything from there, but that’s just a lie he tells himself to make him feel better. 

In reality, it’s because this is who he is now, isn’t it? All the hate boiling in him, the burning black heat of his pain and anger, the sixth sense, the survival even when he wanted nothing more than to die, they’re all part of it: Sam. 

The new Sam, anyways. When was the moment he changed? When did it all fall apart? He wasn’t always like this: there was a time when it was all different, when he saved monsters instead of killing them--or tried, at least. There was a time when he never felt this anger inside him, the hatred. The old Sam. 

But so much changed. 

When was the moment he changed? 

Sam can’t tell. Maybe it’s the first time he won the Game. Maybe it was when Castiel ripped his body from his soul. Maybe it was the first time he saw the darkness of the cage. Maybe it was the first time he couldn’t scream past the blood. 

Maybe it was earlier than that. Maybe it was when he killed Lilith. Maybe it was when he drank demon blood. Maybe it was when he watched Dean die. Maybe it was when he was stabbed in the back. Maybe it was when Jess burned on the ceiling. 

Maybe--just maybe--this is just always who he’s been, since he was born. Well, maybe it was before. That’s the whole point of destiny, isn’t it? You never get a choice. 

Sam scoffed to himself as he walked along the ragged road, the woods behind him. He was surprised by how warm it was. What month was it? September, October? The days flew by without much thought anymore. This road stayed the same, however. Sam remembers when he and Dean met their great grandfather and found the bunker, driving on this road for the first time. Sam had the feeling that this road was very… consistent is the word. It doesn’t change. It’s built with loose gravel, long and winding through the forest without another building in sight. 

A single road. No forks, no turns. There’s one destination in mind, one place where it ends up. 

Sam was a product of destiny, at least that’s what he believes. He was born and bred to be one thing. He was fed demon blood--no, before that: he was sold away. 

Sold away. Like nothing. Like he was nothing. She didn’t even remember the day it happened. Didn’t bother to care. 

Because why would she? This is his destiny. His one, long road. Choices were never in the cards for him. He’s a tool, and tools don’t get to make decisions. They get to drink demon blood like a good little soldier and make sure to load up their gun or else the ghost will kill you and try to stop screaming until the rawhead finds us and kill demons and run away and say “yes.”

_ “Yes.” _

The magic word. 

Sam continued to walk, the gravel crunching underneath his shoes. Crunches, something shifting through the trees. Was it a wind? Was it the darkness waving to him? Sam couldn’t tell, couldn’t see anything. Everything looked different: usually Sam only sees the darkness, only hears silence, but not right now. Right now felt… 

“It feels like before, doesn’t it?” 

Sam jumped his head snapping to the voice, to the noise behind him, and then he shook his head at himself. He’s only been gone for what, ten minutes? And look at him: he was already letting everything slip. 

Usually Other Sam stands in the darkness, that’s where Sam always sees him, but he wasn’t in the darkness anymore. Somehow, in the street where the shadows were looming and the stars were dark, he was well lit, like a spotlight was shining on him. 

“Well not anymore,” Sam replied, facing him fully now. He always wore the same thing. He was wearing it now. Sam wished he had chosen a different outfit to go to Hell in. 

Other Sam smiled a bit, a small smile, like always. He was the same, he was always the same. “Sorry.” He wasn’t sorry. 

He scoffed, looking away from the light, from the shining spotlight that was hurting his eyes and making him dizzy. He looked to the road, the single road going forward. There was only one place to go. 

“So what are you going to do?” Other Sam asked. 

Sam shrugged, looking down the road. It was long, it was winding, and Sam couldn’t see beyond the darkness settling like a fog. What was he going to do? When he began walking the road, it was an instinct, it was natural, and he didn’t think twice about it. But now Other Sam was here, and he was confused again, and he wondered why. Why was he walking down the road? What was he planning to do?

“Why bother?” Other Sam’s voice was the same as his, he knew, and yet it was different. “It’s just one demon.” 

“Dean could be in trouble.” 

“And why would you care?” 

Sam looked over his shoulder, back at him. Other Sam was clean, there wasn’t any blood on him, there wasn’t any grime. He always wondered how that was: after so much time, you think any version of him would be tainted, distorted, like how his soul looks, but it’s not like that. Other Sam is clean, in almost every way. 

“I’m not going to let Dean get hurt,” he replied, looking back down the road. 

Other Sam let out a laugh at that, not a chuckle, not a breath, but a true bark of laughter. “I think you’re doing that just fine on your own.” 

Sam flinched at that. That’s the thing about Other Sam: he’s always right. Even when you don’t want him to be and you sit in the darkness and try to forget and he speaks to you and you hope more than anything that he’s wrong, he never is. He’s so different from Dean: Dean uses the truth because he doesn’t know anything else, and he can’t let himself lie. Other Sam uses the truth like a knife, cutting the corruption and lies from his body, like fire burning away the rot inside of him. 

He was right. How much did Dean know? How much did he suspect? Sam’s been letting everything slip lately, the bags under his eyes, the silence, when he grabbed Rachel, his eyes on fire. He wasn’t fooling anyone earlier.  _ “It’s fine.”  _ It wasn’t. They knew that. 

But he was lost, even as he walked down this road with no twists or turns or loops. He was lost. He didn’t see the path ahead of him, didn’t know what to do other than what’s he’s always done: lie. Because lying is necessary, it’s always necessary, so it must be necessary now, right? 

He continued his walk down the road. It felt inevitable, it felt endless, and it felt like the road was something he had made before, but that couldn’t be true, could it?

\---

As Castiel fought, all he could think about was how different demons and angels are. For example, demons are created from things: they used to be humans. Angels are completely different from humans, something otherworldly, entirely foreign in a way that makes those that see their true form scream with more fear than any black eyed demon. They’re born different. 

What was it his brother had said? That one time in the manger?  _ “Do not be afraid.” _ A strange request from humans. That’s almost all they do, or at least most of them: fear. 

Castiel realized this when he started to become more human. It’s almost all he can feel. The pull of terror, the way his heart almost begins to shake. Before he understood humanity he scoffed at such things. But he gets it now. Because you can’t feel fear until you care about things, and angels don’t care about things. 

Well, nothing that really matters anyways. 

Maybe that’s why Castiel didn’t care until much later specifically how demons are created. It’s interesting, though. Every demon used to be human, and you can see it sometimes. They use vessels to present themselves to humans, but Angels can see their true faces, and you can see it: past the gore, the blood, the stitches and the disfiguring and black eyes, you can see it: a human. Or something that used to be human, anyways. Something that used to cry and laugh and feel. 

Then Castiel looks over at Dean, the most human person he knows. Whenever he fights, a glaze overcomes his eyes. A certain glassy look that makes his eyes gleam like that of a predetor, that makes his green irises seem duller, like they’re stuck in the dark. He is dazed, overcome by the fight, by the conflict. He’s as scarred on his skin as he is on his soul, though Castiel tries not to look at his soul. It hurts him to look at it, to know that Dean was suffering--that he  _ knew  _ Dean was suffering in Hell--and he didn’t save him. He could have if he tried harder, if he just came sooner. 

But he didn’t, and now he looks over at Dean, standing by his side, scars dotting his soul. They would never leave. 

He remembered Sam’s scars--well, not really scars. They’re still so fresh, they look like they’re still bleeding, and everything is disfigured and  _ wrong  _ and he looks like… well… a demon. 

_ “Your brother is a monster.”  _

There were times that Castiel wondered if Sam was still human, after Hell. It is quite the moral dilemma, isn’t it? If a human going into Hell makes them into a demon, what happens when they leave as a human? What are they? 

The demon danced around his fist. How was he going so fast? Castiel’s fought demons before, he was an angel of the lord. Even after the angels fell from Heaven demons weren’t meant to be like this. 

Perhaps he was tired.

Perhaps not. 

Angels and demons are very different, after all. 

\---

So what creates a demon? 

It’s a great question, and while Sam and Dean think they have the answer, they don’t really. They think all it takes is for someone to be tortured in Hell, and then to torture others. Dean went through it himself. It seems very cut and dry. Easy to spell out. 

Truth be told, they’re not entirely wrong either. People are tortured until all they know is pain, all they see is darkness, and all they feel is blood, and then they get remade from the ripped apart remains. The more pain, the more powerful, and the more powerful, the more pain they cause. 

But that doesn’t answer the biggest question: what creates a demon? 

Well, the answer to that is simple: a job. 

Every demon has a job, whether they know it or not. Some are meant to possess, some are meant to torture, some are meant to make Sam drink demon blood, and some are meant to make crossroad deals, but each demon has a job. If they didn’t have a job, they wouldn’t get created in the first place. 

So, the next big question: what is the job of the demon fighting Dean and Cas right now? 

The answer is, actually, just as simple: to make Sam say “yes.” He was given the job by a very important person, and he’s doing the job very well right now, as Sam heads his way. After all, what could make Sam say “yes” more than hurting his family? That’s what the demon is thinking. 

Last big question: what is the mastermind thinking?

\---

When Dean said “yes,” he was already starting to forget what it was like being human. The subtle touch of the wind, the sound of the legos in the heater, the rumble of the car, the stars. It’s hard to remember such things when everything is falling apart, when you are ripping apart, and so he didn’t.

Well, actually that’s a lie. Remember: Dean doesn’t forget. He can’t forget. 

He refuses to forget. 

The only thing he felt back then was the hooks. They went through his shoulders, his legs. Did his blood trickle down or did it burn before it could? Dean didn’t really remember. Didn’t feel anything besides the hooks. 

He tried to think of other things while the rusty knives went through his skin, his chest, cracking through his bones, into his heart. His brother, singing that Bon Jovi song in the Impala right before… well  _ before _ . Fixing up Baby’s engine, looking at the stars, making his first sawed-off shotgun. He remembered his brother’s voice, drifting to him as he went to Hell. He said his name. He said “no.” 

Dean said “yes.” After forty years; it was hard to count, but Dean tried, and counted, and counted, and he didn’t lose it. It was forty years there, forty years of being ripped into pieces, of the hooks, of the breaking bones, and he said the word, and then he ripped them apart. 

It goes without saying, of course, but Dean never forgave himself. No, not for the people he tortured--he was sure they were long broken, turned into demons by now, and he doesn’t care about them. It’s his brother. Isn’t it always his brother?

The truth is, Dean thinks everything that happens to Sam is his responsibility. From the time that he fell on the concrete and scratched his chin to the time he bled to death in his arms. It’s all his fault. When he was on that road, at night, next to the ghost town, all he could think in that moment as he held him was that he couldn’t feel anything, couldn’t breathe, that Sam was so heavy as he took him in his arms. So heavy, heavier than ever before, the type of heavy when death has his foot on your chest and pushes you down into the ground. 

It’s all his fault. At least, that’s what Dean thinks. What if he had been faster, just a little faster? What if he had spotted Jake sooner? What if he had yelled louder? What if he had told him the truth earlier? What if he had listened to his dad? What if he hadn’t dragged him from Stanford? 

His responsibility. The same logic applied to when he came back from Hell, when he ripped open the seal and plunged the world into chaos. He was gone, he had sold his soul away like it was a passing fancy, and Sam was gone when he came back too, and Dean blamed himself, because he always does. 

Sam is gone now, too. Dean is blaming himself again. How does he rationalize it this time? That he should have noticed something off with Sam earlier? That he should have known something supernatural was happening with him from the start? That he should have stopped Lucifer from coming back? That he should have stopped Sam from jumping in the pit in the first place? 

It doesn’t really matter, does it? None of it is true, it’s just another one of Dean’s ways he tries to convince himself he can control his world. He can’t, and it tears him apart. The idea that Sam can change without him, that his choices and his pain is something Dean can’t stop, and that the way the wind blows is something he can’t shift, and the pathway is something he can’t repave… it rips into him harder than the hooks ever could. 

If Dean thought about it, really thought about it, he’d notice things as he fought the demon in front of him: he’d notice how fast it is, how it always seems to avoid him and Cas’ blows. He’d notice how it is toying with them, not striking out. He’d notice the way he smiles when the darkness around them is slowly becoming lighter, as if the world knows what’s coming. 

If he noticed all of these things, then he might finally find out what is really happening with Sam: he’d know who was behind the strings, he’d know their plan, he’d know how to stop it after this. He’d have the power to save his brother, the one thing he’s wanted so long. 

But he is destined for failure right now, same as Sam was so long ago. He will play right into the mastermind’s plan and today, as he fights this demon under the dimly lit stars, he will see his brother drift even further away towards the end. Inching closer and closer, like the rising of the sun, to saying the magic word. 

Dean won’t be able to save his brother then. 

But, to be fair, it’s not like he ever could. 

The world is burning around him, and Sam walks a path he made himself.

\---

The mastermind is watching, and what a show he watches. Torturing Sam was entertainment enough for his long, long time in the cage, but this? This is what true engagement is: he can barely tear his eyes away. 

He sees his demon, holding the blade he handed him, ducking in and out and between the two of them. The car was there (one of the things he just can’t wait to destroy), and the sky was getting lighter, even though it was dark. He smiled at that. He doesn’t see Sam yet, but he will. 

History is doomed to repeat itself. That’s what it did with him and Michael and Sam and Dean, that's what it did with sweet Mary Winchester and poor Jess, and that’s what it will do again here, and though redundancy isn’t usually so entertaining, there is just something so satisfying about seeing plays rhyme. 

His brother, fallen, fighting alongside the human who turned him, the brother. They fight the demon, and he plays his part perfectly too. This is all a play, and the script is playing itself out just as he planned for years and years and years and so, so long. 

If it all goes according to his plan, which it will, then soon Sam will come into play. He will make a decision, not the first one, and it will set everything he needs into motion. 

Sam, the keystone. Sam, the vessel. Sam, the perfect creation. Sam, the broken doll that he can put back together again. 

Of course, today isn’t the end. Actually, it’s far from it. No, his plan has many steps. This isn’t over for Sam. Is it ever over for Sam?

No, this is entertainment, but it’s not the play yet: this is just a rehearsal. 

\---

And now we come to the crossroads. 

The road splits off into two here. On one side there is darkness, complete darkness and shadow morphing the trees into monsters and the gravel into blood with cold wind howling through it, and on the other side it’s light, a well lit road where there aren’t any shadows at all. It’s warm--not just warm, it feels flaming. Like there’s a fire raging. It’s so bright it hurts the eye. There’s no blemish in sight, barely even dirt. It's all just perfect. 

Sam doesn’t want to be here. 

He knows what this means, being here. At this place, at this crossroad. It’s just like when he took Other Sam’s hand by the river, the first mistake he made of many. Why talk to the things that no one else can see? It’s hard not to. 

It feels final, being here, even though it’s not. Usually Sam would love finality: an end to the darkness, the cold, the pain, the voices, but it doesn’t feel like that here. This doesn’t feel like a swan song, or even like a slow, anticlimactic end. It feels like a nail in his coffin. It feels like this choice, no matter which one he makes, is the beginning of the end. The jumping of the shark. 

And he’s right. It is. That’s the thing about destiny: it’s just a coffin made for you before you’re dead. The only thing to ponder now is what color he wants the casket. Once he goes down one of these paths he won’t be able to stop it, he won’t go back, and he won’t even have the sense to want to. Not for a while, at least. 

Sam looks down the pathways again, and he thinks. 

“So what’s the choice?” he said. He stood at the entrance to the light, standing in the perfect, white gravel. His eyes were trained on Sam, just like they were before, just like they are every time. 

Sam dragged his eyes over to the light pathway, to the figure. “You know,” he said, his voice gravelly. “You’re very annoying.” 

Other Sam shrugged, hands in his pockets. He looked amused. “It’s a fair question.” 

He was right, it was. He didn’t want to be here, but he was here anyways. This, the choice, it’s something he’s been anticipating for a long time, or at least it’s something he should have seen coming from the beginning: choices were always something Sam has had to make.  _ “Heaven of Hell, Sam Winchester? How about you drink the demon blood, Sam Winchester. Do you want to say “yes,” Sam Winchester?” _

No, he doesn’t want this. But that doesn’t matter because it’s never mattered before. 

Sam looked down the pathway with the light, with Other Sam standing at the mouth. This was the way to get to Dean and Cas, the way to find the demon they were fighting, the way to save his family, the way to kill everyone he loves. He could feel it, the pull of it. It would be so easy, he knew, to put his feet on the white ground, to walk down that way. The way where the voices were gone, and the darkness too, and everything would feel like fire. 

He looked down the other pathway, the shadows. It would be more of the same. 

The question is, which pathway saves his family, and which one saves the world? 

“Neither,” Other Sam interjected. 

Sam sighed, continuing to stare down the dark pathway. The shadows were dancing in his vision like flames. “You know, for all the things you can do, you really can’t shut the fuck up, can you?” 

“I learned from the best.” Did he mean Lucifer or Dean? Actually it didn’t matter: they both had red eyes most of the time anyways. 

The pathways were looming in front of him, and everything in his head was screaming at him--and remember, being in his head isn’t a metaphor. They were screaming, everything in him that survived the cage and the darkness, every good part of him that was covered in blood and gore and everything that crawled out of there alive with him was screaming. To go down the darkness, to go back where he came, to ignore the demon, to say “no.” To leave his brother and his friend there with the demon, because even if they died there it would be better than if he saved them, it would be better than beginning that fight. That if he saved them now, here, then he’d only be putting another nail in their coffins, another brick in their pathway. 

There were other parts of him screaming too, though. They were the parts forged by Hell, forged by Lucifer. The parts of him that keep him alive even though he doesn’t sleep and let him resist a demon’s power and show him the way out even when there isn’t one. It’s the parts of him that are the only reason he’s still here, breathing, even though he doesn’t want it sometimes. They were screaming, screaming for him to go down the light, to let go of the pain, to kill everything. Everything that has ever hurt him. To rip apart that Impala rim by rim until he finally got to the Lego’s in the heater and destroy them too. They told him to make the pain stop. 

Sam didn’t know what to do. There wasn’t a right answer, there was never a right answer. 

Why wasn’t there a right answer? Why him? Why is it Sam Winchester, always Sam Winchester? Why does he get to be a soldier? Why does he get sold away? Why is he the vessel? Why is he the one that had to sacrifice himself for the world? Why did he get ripped apart over and over and over again? Why did he have his mind shattered? Why is there always darkness? Why is he covered in blood? Why does there have to be an Other Sam? Why is there a demon here? Why does he have to make this choice here, now?

Why him? 

Sam looked down the pathways again. The light, the dark, the blood, the white, and everything in between. The stars that he can’t see, the screams that ring in his head all around him, his brother, an angel, and a demon down one way. 

He looks and looks. 

He doesn’t want to be here. 

It doesn’t matter, though. It’s never mattered with him. He’s here now, and he can either leave his family, or he can go to them and leave himself behind. 

That’s the point of a crossroads. 

\---

One time, what seems like so long ago, Sam spoke to Castiel. This was before their mother came back, before they even knew there was a chance Lucifer could escape the cage. Before it all began to fall apart. They were lounging around the car next to a lake, and Dean was at the shore, pathetically attempting to catch a fish because Sam claimed he couldn’t, and Sam shook his head. The wind was blowing around the three of them, slowly rustling the grass into a song, and the sun was gleaming in the sky, and everything was quiet, but also not.

Castiel felt something, then, deep in his chest. What was it? It wasn’t sad or happy or hungry or angry, but it was so…  _ human _ . That was the word: human. It was such a human feeling that he couldn’t describe it, and yet he was full of it. It was like something he had only felt in a distant dream before, suddenly in front of his face, and he recognized it but couldn’t understand it.

“Sam, what is this?”

“You mean Dean? He’s trying to catch a bass with a shotgun.” Almost on cue, a big boom echoed through the lake shore, followed by a splash and a string of curses. 

“No, no,” Castiel replied, though he couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of Dean shaking water off himself like a dog. “I mean what… what is  _ this _ ?” he pointed to his chest, right where he felt that feeling. 

Dean probably would have responded with a quip about how unhelpful the visual he gave was, but Sam smiled a bit in recognition when he saw the point. “Oh  _ that _ ? That’s called ‘content.’” 

Castiel knew every word in every language, and yet that one was foreign to him. Perhaps if he had used Enochian that would have been more clear. “Content?” 

“Yeah,” Sam continued, staring at the lake. “Content. Like… happy? But not in a big way or anything. It’s like you’re safe and you like where you are.”

_ Content _ . That did seem like what Castiel was feeling. Safe, warm in a way. He didn’t want to be anywhere else. Content. He looked over at Sam, who seemed to be staring at something in the distance, past Dean. When Castiel looked that way, though, he saw nothing but the treeline. “Do you feel content?” 

Sam’s head snapped back to Cas at that question. “Me? No. Not really. Anymore,” he added, inclining his head. 

“Why not?”

Sam shrugged, but he looked off in the distance again. “I don’t know,” he said, but it seemed like he did. “Things change.”

Change? “What ch--?” Castiel began to ask, but he was cut off by another big boom, and a fish flying from the water and onto the shore. 

“Sam! Cas! Get over here!” Dean cried, leaping towards the flopping creature. 

Sam shook his head with a laugh, pushing himself off the car, and that was the end of that. 

\---

Castiel was beginning to put the pieces together. 

He’s not usually the first one to do that. In fact, most times he’s the last person to figure things out. But he’s different now. Changed, not in the way that Sam is changed, but he doesn’t say the same the way Dean does. Ever since he was tricked by his brother, ever since he brought him back and saw Sam’s face as he walked away, he’s had a saying trapped in his head, Bobby’s words, of course. It’s this:

_ “Fool me once shame on you. Fool me twice shame on me.” _

Castiel may be a fool--that has yet to be determined--but he doesn’t do well with shame. Lucifer fooled him the first time, and now Sam was silent, a ghost, maybe not even human anymore, and Dean was fighting a demon. 

The demon. It wasn’t sitting right with him as Castiel lunged at him. He ducked quickly away, and the only thing he could think was how  _ un-demon-like  _ that is. 

Demons are different from angels, but not that different. They’re bloodthirsty, they’re cruel, they’re cowardly, but they don’t play with their food. At least, not like this. They jeer, they joke, maybe reveal a secret or two, but they don’t dance around the demon blade, they don’t laugh the way this demon is as Castiel tries to grab him and meets nothing but air. 

The demon’s blade was in his hands, but he didn’t use it. It could kill Dean, or Cas, at any moment, dispose of them, and he could do it, or at least try.

They always do, too. They always try. 

But this one wasn’t, and Castiel began to put the pieces together as he felt the sensation that he was being fooled again. Again. 

_ “Thanks for the ride, little brother.”  _

Castiel weaved and ducked from the blade flashing in front of him. Behind it, there were black eyes. 

He always hated that about demons. Well he hates everything about demons, as he should, but the black eyes are the worst part. Everything else about a demon looks like it could be human. It looks like, past the gore and the wounds, there’s a human soul that used to be there. But the eyes don’t look like that. The eyes are black, blacker than the emptiness before the world was made. It looks like blood, the type of blood that pools together and looks more like ink than anything. The type of blood that isn’t crimson. 

His words were wheeling their way through Castiel’s mind, penetrating his thoughts.  _ “What did he say to you, after you did it?” “Did you hear Sam, when he was in the cage? Did you bother to look?”  _

_ “You’re lucky he hasn’t already snapped.” _

The words flowed through his mind and he couldn’t stop it. Every fist he brought down was a snap, everything around him sounded like Sam’s screams in the cage. Sam’s own words as he sat, bleeding in the dark. The way he voice shook as he said  _ “Lucifer?” _ because how could he even speak? How could he speak past the blood around him and the eyes that weren’t there anymore? 

Castiel was shaking, he realized. Every human part of him was shaking, just like his heart when he saw Sam in the darkness. His fingers were trembling by his side, his legs threatened to buckle under him. He was human, right now, utterly human. 

Partially.

He still felt the light of heaven, the holy fires burning within him. Castiel was an Angel of the Lord, entirely foreign to humans: something different, something that makes them afraid. He was different. 

The two parts of him: Cas with shaking hands and Castiel, who was watching, and learning. Putting the pieces together. 

Dean slashed a wide arc in the air, the blade almost grazing the demon’s nose. He leaned back effortlessly, hands behind his back, angel blade shining in one of them. Castiel watched as Dean launched himself forward into the demon, who slid to the side, smiling. Dean panted, and his smile grew. “You seem tired, kiddo. Maybe you should time out. I’d love to face an angel one-on-one,” he said, winking at Cas across the street. 

Dean didn’t reply, simply launched himself at him again. Castiel felt like he should follow him, every human part of him told him to, but he didn’t. The holy fire in him was raging, keeping his feet planted on the gravel. 

The demon gave a little laugh again as he ducked, Dean’s knife getting lodged in a nearby tree for a moment. “I can’t wait to watch you do this with your brother,” he laughed, his wide smirk nearly gleaming in the bright lights. 

“Shut your mouth,” Dean ordered, but it was nothing more than a grunt as he ripped the blade free from the wood. There was a glaze in his eyes, the cool of battle had settled over him. He lunged forward, knife in hand, and the demon’s hand slid down Dean’s arm as he flew forward, gripping his shoulder, spinning him so his arm was locked in place behind his back and they were facing one another. Dean struggled, but it was futile against the demon’s grip. 

The demon’s eyes turned black as he stared at Dean. “Come on, Dean. Look into my eyes and tell me you don’t see Sam.” 

Dean screamed, ripping himself free from his grip. The holy fire was raging in Castiel, and his feet weren’t planted in the ground anymore. He found himself moving, moving as the pieces did when they shifted together. 

He saw Dean bringing up his blade, saw the demon’s smile. The smirk as his black eyes masqueraded as human ones. This is what he wanted. Dean’s screams, his blade. This is what he needs. 

“Dean, stop!” he called, launching himself in front of Dean, pushing him back. He felt his weight thud against him, dully. The fire was raging inside of him. 

Dean grunted as he hit him. He seemed shocked, still in his revere of battle. His eyes were glazed over. The daze. The rage, anger. “Cas?” He looked down at Castiel for a moment. There was a flicker in his eyes, of realization of something human, the green, but as he looked back up at the demon it was gone as soon as it came. He shook his head, pushing against Castiel as the angel held him by one wrist, one hand on his chest.

“Dean! Dean, stop!” He pushed Dean away from the demon, away from him, his angelic strength propelling him several feet away. He stumbled backwards, landing on the white gravel with a grunt. Cas felt bad about it, but as Dean looked up from the ground, as he gasped with the sting of pain, looking up at Castiel, the glaze in his eyes seemed to be pierced by his green irises. Like there was a crack shining through as he stumbled to his knees, knife still clutched in his hand. 

Castiel looked from him, back to the demon, who was now standing in front of the Impala, hands in his pockets, eyebrows raised in amusement, a smile the shape of a knife on his face. He looked back to Dean, still kneeling, the light making it look like there were flames dancing around him. The fight, the glaze of his eyes seemed to be leaking from Dean, as if he was made of glass, and when Cas pushed him to the ground he shattered, the cool battle slowly draining from him. 

“He’s playing us, Dean,” he said as he stood between them, between the demon and the human. 

“Not true. I’m giving this my all,” the demon interjected from behind him, but his words fell deaf to Cas and Dean. All Cas saw was Dean’s eyes as they shone green, and all Dean did was stare at Cas. He knew the words that were probably wheeling through his head, louder than anything that demon could say now. 

He turned to the demon, standing on the white gravel, standing in the surprising light road. “He’s trying to keep us here,” he said, the pieces put together in his mind. “We’re a trap for Sam.”

The demon’s eyebrows shot up, and something entered his eyes, something darker than before, and now Castiel saw the picture in them: all of the pieces together, the truth. The pieces. 

_ “It’s fine.” _

_ “For a moment Sam wasn’t… he wasn’t Sam.” _

_ “You’re lucky he hasn’t snapped.” _

“You think if you keep us here Sam will find us, and he’ll fight you.” He stared at the demon, whose face was shifting. It used to be amusement on his features, the same as when one plays with toddlers, the same as when someone knows a secret and can’t help but giggle at the thought of being the only one who knows it. It wasn’t that anymore: it was something wicked. And sinister, like suddenly the temperature had dropped. Like suddenly it wasn’t a game anymore. The black in his eyes seemed to shine like flares. 

“And what will happen if he fights me?” he replied, glaring with a smirk that now looked more like a baring of teeth. He looked past Castiel, down at Dean, kneeling on the ground still. “Or are you too afraid to find out?” Venom dripped from his words. 

Castiel shook his head, though his mind was whirling. At least, his human mind. His angel mind kept his feet planted on the ground, and his eyes steady. “It won’t work,” he replied, clenching his hands. Shaking hands. 

The demon wrinkled his nose in distaste, and his smile was a curl of knives. “Are you sure it already hasn’t?” He whispered the words, barely audible as he spit them out. 

Then, for the first time in this entire time, the demon lunged forward. He attacked. The blade was shining in his hand, and he heard Dean yell from behind him, a screech, the light shining on him, glaring on him, and though Castiel tried to move fast, it didn’t work. 

The last thing he remembers is the feeling of the knife sinking into his flesh. 

\---

Dean has spent a long, long time watching the people he loves die. 

For example, his mother burned on the ceiling, right after she said angels would watch him. That was the first time, and he was barely even four then. It gets worse.

It was Sam next. That one was the worst one. He still remembers it in his dreams, the sight of it. How when he saw Jake's blade go into his back it was like Dean died right then. Time stopped, everything stopped, and there was silence. Pure silence. It felt like everything inside of him had snapped, like he was dead on the spot, right next to his brother. He would have wanted that instead. 

But what he got was the nothingness. Pure nothingness. The silence, the space. He didn’t know what to say, how to fix anything. He just held his brother in his arms and tried his best not to realize it was his corpse. 

He screamed as Castiel fell to the ground. At least, he thinks he did. He heard someone scream. All he saw was a flash before he fell--was it the light of his soul filtering out as he died? Was it the simple refraction of the light of the blade? Dean couldn’t tell and it felt like everything was ripping through him, like the angel blade had gone through his own chest. 

He crawled--did he crawl? Did he run?--over to Castiel’s form, covered by the trenchcoat. He wasn’t fast enough--why wasn’t he fast enough? He shouldn’t have let Cas stop him, should have gone to his side. Now his angel was in his arms and he was so, so heavy. So heavy. He shouldn’t be this heavy. 

Was he breathing? That was the first thing he looked for. Was there a heartbeat? His hands were shaking as he tried to find one before realizing that wouldn’t work: Castiel didn’t have a heartbeat. He frantically put his hands on Castiel’s clothes, the bloody portion near his chest. Where did it hit? Did it kill him? Where was the stain? 

His hands were becoming painted with blood by the time he found it after ripping apart his shirt: it was right above his heart, in his shoulder blade. He put his hands there. How deep was the wound? There seemed to be a dull light leaking from it, like his blood was made of sun. He didn’t know how angel wounds worked, really (was it really a wound if they were dead? Dean didn’t want to think about it). His hands were trembling so hard they barely could touch the wound by the time he felt movement against him. A slight flutter of fingers against his. 

It was like a shock to his system. His head snapped to Castiel’s face, where his eyes were cracking open. Blue, bright eyes. 

Alive. He was alive.

Dean could have collapsed then. But he didn’t. Instead he brought his hands to Castiel’s neck, holding his head up as the angel gasped, painfully, seething through his teeth, though he tried to hide it.

“I’m okay,” Cas muttered, his eyelids drooping.

“No you’re not,” Dean replied. He looked up at the demon, who was leaning against the Impala, glowering with a wicked smile that made him look like a predator. His face was in shadow, so different than the almost bright light that surrounded him, making him look more like a dream--a nightmare--than real. Gone was the lighthearted amusement and the dashing and ducking and taunts. The blade was red in his hands with Castiel’s blood, there was blood on his face and clothes too now, and his eyes were black. 

Castiel saw him too. He groaned and Dean immediately looked back down. Down at his face that had crimson on it. Down at his face which was pale, paler than it should be. “Put me down, Dean,” he muttered. 

“No.” 

“I’ll be fine, Dean. Put me down.”

Dean grimaced, staring at his white face, the bloodstains on his neck. He looked back at the demon. Then he set Castiel slowly back on the gravel, trying to ignore how he shuddered in pain when he did so. He grabbed the demon blade that he realized now he had dropped when he saw Castiel fall. Then he stood up, and he tried not to sway on his feet.

The demon wrinkled his nose. “Sad he’s still alive,” he replied, wiping his knife on his shirt, making a long stain of scarlet on the fabric that looked like a brand. “I can’t believe I missed.” 

There was a dull roaring in Dean’s ears. Everything around him seemed to be setting him off, as if the temperature itself was rising. The bright lights that came from nowhere, the white gravel, the stain of the blood on the demon’s clothes. The still air. 

How dare this demon, this scum of the planet, of everything, do that to Cas? How dare he make taunts about his brother? How dare he?

How dare he make Dean feel  _ that  _ way again?

He didn’t say anything as he brought his knife up. The demon sighed with a breathy chuckle. “Really, Dean? Now? I thought your boyfriend told you  _ not  _ to fight me.” There was a venom in his voice, a potent one. 

“Sadly,” Dean replied, trying to ignore Castiel’s form, because if he didn’t he’d go back to his side again. “He’s not awake to make your case.” 

The demon smiled, but not really. He was glaring now, his black eyes piercing into Dean. There was a small gust of wind that carried down the road, the well-lit road that should have been dim. 

The wind was blowing past them, and his expression changed as his eyes flickered to something behind Dean. His expression changed at it, a recognition, but when Dean looked, there was nothing there. But it felt like there should have been. 

“Sorry, Dean. I don’t feel like playing anymore.” His voice was flat, and before Dean could move, before the wind had even carried past them, he brought his hand up, palm open, and Dean felt his feet sweep out from under him as the power hit him like a truck. 

He hit the nearby tree on the road with a grunt, the knife flying from his hands and onto the gravel (his dad would have been disappointed). The pain ricocheted through his body, and he saw only spots. Only a glaring light through the curtains of his vision. Everything around him was so light, he realized. When did that happen? When did the road suddenly get filled with light? Did it happen all at once or did it appear gradually, and he just didn’t realize it was light until it was here and there was nothing left he could do? 

Before he could see anything, before he could even pick himself up from the dirt, there was a hand on his shoulder and shirt and it shoved him up off the ground. He heard Castiel groan. “Dean…” The world wheeled around him and he looked down at Castiel trying to push himself off the ground, blood on his shirt. One of his hands weakly reached to Dean as the demon pushed him up higher against the tree, the sight of his black eyes blocking the angel from his vision. 

The demon didn’t say anything, didn’t even smile as he brought his angel blade up to eye level. The blade flashed, flashed in front of him and Dean couldn’t, the wind knocked out of him, the fight knocked out of him. No cool of battle, no small noticings, nothing. Just the blade. Just the silence. 

It was almost comforting as he brought the blade back, ready to strike him. Almost comforting because at least it would be him this time. At least now he wouldn’t be watching it anymore. At least now he’d be the heavy one, at least he’d be the one on the ground. 

The blade shined, and the black eyes shined, and as the blade went forward Dean braced himself for the cut. The pain. The darkness. The pure darkness. 

But it never came.

The lights flashed. A hand came from behind the demon before the blade struck, gripping his arm. The hand twisted his wrist, and the demon’s hand was contorted until the knife fell to the ground in a thunk that Dean couldn’t hear. The demon snarled as he turned around to face the thing behind him. The thing Dean couldn’t see. 

The air was still, the lights were glaring, the white gravel was against the black sky, and the demon turned around to see the figure standing behind him, a tall silhouette, black against the white. The temperature was rising, it was as if he was in a furnace as he watched the figure grip the demon by the shoulders. Dean saw their hands on the demon’s torso, their grip twisting, their fingers digging into his shirt, pushing so hard into him that the cloth ripped underneath it. There was a snap. The demon screamed with something that sounded like pain and the silhouette threw him off Dean, who immediately collapsed to the ground, to the hot, white gravel against the black sky. 

He watched. The demon was in the middle of the road now, and he grimaced, gripping one of his shoulders which looked out of place. Dean realized, dully and far away, that it was dislocated from its own socket, and there was a bloodstain there that wasn’t there before. He stumbled to his feet, staring at the figure. The demon stared at the figure, the white surroundings. He brought up his hand, palm out. Dean felt it: the power of Hell that was going to surge forth. 

But it didn’t, because it came from the figure first. Their hand snapped out, fingers pointed to the demon, and suddenly he flew backwards, right into the Impala, who’s front window shattered on impact, who’s hood dented and curved around him, as if it was molding into him. 

The air was still, the lights were glaring, the white gravel was against the black sky. “I think,” Sam Winchester said, and his voice was clear cut like a bell ringing through the road. “It’s time for you to leave.” He looked tall, taller than before as he stood on the white gravel. His face was made of stone, and his hands were lying by his sides now, and gone were the bags under his eyes and the pale skin, and gone was the fatigue. He looked like he took up the whole road. He looked nothing like the kid who bled in his arms, nothing like the brother who was stabbed in the back. 

He looked different. Another person entirely.

And all Dean could wonder in that moment, with a demon on his car and an angel bleeding next to him and the white gravel and still air, was if this person in front of him was one-hundred percent pure Sam. 

The demon propped himself up, glass shaking from his bloody clothes. His eyes were black, everything was black on him. He stared at Sam for a moment, and something flashed in his eyes. Something sinister. Something that reminded Dean of… 

Dean looked at his brother in the road. 

The demon turned his head, as if he heard Dean’s thoughts, and he looked him right in the eyes. And then he smiled, and his teeth were sharp, and he looked like he was made of fire, and Dean didn’t even have enough time to see it before he was gone, and there was still air and the white gravel and the dark sky. 

Just like that. 

The air was still, the lights were glaring, the white gravel was black against the dark sky, and Sam was a statue. The demon was gone, and yet he stared and stared and stared at the place he once was, and his hands weren’t moving and nothing was moving. Dean couldn’t see his eyes. The world felt hot to the touch, as if it was being heated by fire, as if the place they were was on fire and Dean was watching Sam standing in the middle of the flames, still. Unmoving. 

He was made of stone. He was a statue. Silent, but the wind was roaring around them. He couldn’t even tell if he was breathing, if he could do anything but stand and stare. His hand was by his side, limp, and it didn’t look like it could throw someone several feet away without touching them, wrecking a car, but it just did. It just did. 

The air was so hot it threatened to burn everything around them. The glaring lights burned, everything burned. Dean couldn’t see his brother’s eyes, though he saw him staring. And he wasn’t moving. Was anything moving? It didn’t seem like it, and he couldn’t stand it. 

“Sammy?” 

His brother flinched at his name. He moved when he heard it. It was as if Dean’s voice was a shock that forced his movement. He put a hand to his head, turning around to face Dean. His skin was pale, the bags under his eyes as dark as the paint on the Impala. His eyes looked brown in the darkness of the road. 

Sam shook his head, as if he was shaking off a dream. “Dean? Where’s…?” his question trailed off as he saw Castiel on the ground, propped up by his arm. “Cas.” He dashed to his side, kneeling down. Immediately he put his hands on him, on his shoulder. A distant memory echoed in Dean’s mind of Castiel, cold in his arms, trying to reach out to a Sam Winchester that flinched from his touch. 

Dean leaned against the tree for support as he staggered to his feet. Castiel’s eyes were barely open, cracked and dazed, as Sam lifted him up with an amount of ease that didn’t seem possible. His footsteps crunched on the gray gravel as he walked past Dean’s slumping figure, carrying the angel in his arms. “Can you drive?” he asked as he threw open one of the Impala doors. There were words filtering through Dean’s mind that blurred the dark world around him. 

“Yeah… yeah I can drive,” he ground out through the pain in his backside. There was a cool breeze surrounding him, a dullness he couldn’t place. He grabbed the angel blade and demon blade, scattered close by, and limped his way to the Impala, where Sam was placing Cas in the backseat. The world was roaring, roaring with the words. 

He punched out the shattered glass from in front of him so he could see. He drove home, the cold air whistling through the car, whistling words and a phrase. He looked in the mirror at Castiel. He looked in the passenger seat and saw Sam, and he tried to catch his eyes, but they looked normal. They were brown, and normal.

The black gravel crunched under the wheels of the car and the stars were little glimmers in the black sky, the dark black sky. Dark like ink. 

He drove and drove, as fast as he could for so many reasons. To get Cas help, to get the car there before it broke apart. But mostly it was because he was running. Running from the words that filled the air before, and the ones that followed him now. Followed him through the night, through the darkness. 

Dean shook his head, and looked one last time at his brother sitting in the passenger seat, trying to ignore the chant:

_ “Look into my eyes and tell me you don’t see Sam.”  _

\---

“Sir… it’s done.” 

He turned around. Behind him he was kneeling, and there was a stain of blood on one of his shoulders, one out of its socket. He could tell it pained him, which amused the mastermind. 

Yes, this was Sam’s work indeed. 

“Good.” He waved his hand, and the demon scurried away to lick its wounds, and he smiled to himself, staring off into the distance. The rose garden around him was cold, the flowers frosted over as he picked one of them up. The clouds piled in the distance, and it was dark outside in the night. Dark, just like he liked it. Dark was efficient. Dark was good. 

He could feel his vessel, far away as he was. He could feel the power simmering below the surface, the things he had created. He could feel the word in his throat that he was going to say, though it wasn’t quite ready yet. But he would say it. He had a choice, and he would make the one he planned. 

“I’ll be seeing you soon, Sam Winchester,” he said, crushing the rose in his hand. 

\---

The world was a blur. The world was flitting around him and he could barely move. Whenever he tried, Dean pushed him back down on the table again and went back to work. 

“Dean, that won’t work,” he rasped as he began to give Cas stitches.

“Just shut up will you.” 

He stopped remembering at that point. The world was black, but it also wasn’t. There was a holy fire burning in his shoulder, blood trickling down his arm. The world kept flitting by, and the entire time he didn’t see anything besides Dean and his memories. The demon, shoving Dean into the tree. Dean’s grunt as he crumpled to the ground. Castiel’s hand reaching out to him, trying to touch him, trying to stop it. 

Sam, grabbing the demon by the arm, a small snap sounding to him in the gravel. Sam, Sam Winchester, the Boy with Demon Blood, pushing the demon into the Impala without even touching him. The light turning into dark, the white turning into black. 

The world was foggy, everything was foggy. Memories were turning into dreams (or were those the same thing?) and his visions were blending with his sights. Sam’s face on the demon, Dean’s face on Sam. He never slept, but it felt like he was watching himself as he lay on the table. He wasn’t passed out, but he wasn’t conscious either. He was a spectator to his own life. A spectator to Sam when he put his hands on his shoulder. A spectator to Dean putting stitches in his arm. 

But eventually the mist began to clear. Holy fire seemed to pull his mind back into his body like chains and ropes. The memories stopped being his surroundings and his surroundings stopped being memories. 

Dean was sitting by his bedside, as always. The lights in the room were dim, as always, and the pain in his shoulder was a dull ache now (whether or not that was a result of his fast healing or Dean’s treatment has yet to be seen), and the room seemed smaller than before. He dully realized in the back of his mind this was the first time he had been here since he left weeks ago.

Castiel pushed himself up, and Dean’s eyes snapped to his right before he was pushed back down. “Yeah, that’s not happening,” Dean said, his hands surprisingly gentle as he went back down into the cushions.

Castiel looked around the room. Sam was leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room, arms crossed. His eyes seemed shrouded, somehow. He could barely see them. It was Sam that carried him to the Impala, wasn’t it? It was Sam that pulled him from the seats and into the bed? He remembered heat, but also cold, and he was far from the ground. It must have been Sam. How long was it since he was stabbed? The bunker had no windows: he couldn’t see. He looked to Dean. “It’s been about an hour,” Dean said, as if he was reading his mind.

An hour. Makes sense. “Makes sense,” he rasped. He tried moving his shoulder, but after the subsequent pain he groaned, laying it back down on the mattress. Dean’s face flashed wish concern, and his light touch grazed the cloth of the bed right next to the wound, flecked with blood. His own blood. 

Sam pushed off from the wall, walking to Castiel’s side. He kneeled down, making them eye level, bracing one of his hands on the bed, the white sheets. “How are you feeling?” he asked, and his voice didn’t sound anything like before. He realized not-so-dully in the back of his mind that this was the first thing Sam had said to him ever since he was “fine.” 

“Well, I’ve certainly been better,” he replied, trying to crack a small smile. Sam nodded, returning it. 

Dean was looking between them, Castiel realized. He was nervous. His eyes were green, so piercingly green they almost took Castiel’s breath away. He stared into them, and into them. They were trying to tell him something. Dean’s face looked desperate, desperate to say something. 

Sam looked between them. There were bags under his eyes, and his skin was pale, and his eyes seemed just a little different than before in a way Castiel couldn’t quite place. “I’ll leave you both to it,” he said, as if he knew. 

He stood up, and there was a stain of blood printed on the bedsheet when he did. “Sam,” Castiel called. Sam looked back and Castiel saw the stain of blood on his fingers, his palm. One of his fingers was bending in the wrong direction. His memories flitted back to the small snap he had heard earlier. “Your hand…” 

Sam looked down at his hand and took it in with mind surprise, as if he hadn’t seen the blood before, as if it was all just conjecture. “Oh,” he said, lightly, his breath a whisper. Then he brought it back down, and there was a smile on his face that didn’t reach his strange eyes. “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “Just try to get better.” He put his other hand on Castiel’s shoulder, his unwounded one, and then he left, and the door squeaked as he shut it. 

Castiel remembered when he came back. Remembered Sam flinching from his touch. 

“Cas? Did you…?” Dean asked once Sam had been gone for moments.

“I saw it,” Castiel replied, staring at the door. He knew what Dean was talking about: Sam’s power, launching the demon into the Impala. 

Dean swallowed, his hand warm as it settled next to his. “What do we do?” his voice was a whisper. He was looking down, down to the floor, the light floor. 

Castiel moved his arm--his wounded arm--to grip Dean’s hand, and he ignored the pain. “We’re going to save Sam,” he said to him with surprising firmness in his words, his voice coming from a different time, and a different Castiel. “We  _ will _ .”

Dean had no reason to believe him. No reason to take those words as true, but he did anyway. Because he needed to. He closed his eyes, wrapping his fingers around Castiel’s. 

Around the two of them was darkness and light, fighting against one another. There was a plan, and words, and everything in between that was horrible and wrong, but they held each other’s hands anyways. They did because if they didn’t they’d be alone in the cataclysm, and when the world falls apart, don’t you want to hold someone’s hand while it does?

\---

The water from the sink was pink as it washed away the blood. Sam rubbed his hands against one another and the dirt went away too. All of it, flushed away in the white, porcelain sink. 

His hands were clean, save for the unnatural bend in one of them. Broken in the middle, flopping to the side. It didn’t hurt much, though Sam’s standards for pain were higher than they probably should be. 

It felt like he was surrounded by fire. Good. Is that good? Who cares. 

He left the door open, footsteps echoing through the light hallway. A well lit hallway where there aren’t any shadows at all. It’s warm, flaming. Like there’s a fire raging. It’s so bright it hurts the eye, no blemishes. Perfect. 

Well, almost. Sam looks down at his hand, at the break, and feels the bone snap back into place. 

_ There _ , he thought, staring down at his pale, clean, perfect, bloody hands with his eyes flecked with red.  _ That’s better _ .

And he truly thought it was, because that’s the thing about a crossroad: you can’t go back. 


End file.
